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THE MERLIN TRILOGY

MARY STEWART
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On sale September 2004 / Mass Market Paperback

THE

O F

magazine

October/November • 56th Year of Publication

NOVELETS

FINDING BEAUTY

Lisa Goldstein

FLAT DIANE

128

Daniel Abraham

THE COURTSHIP OF

155

John Morressy

KATE O'FARRISSEY

THE LITTLE STRANGER

184

Gene Wolfe

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD

202

Richard Chwedyk

CASTLE

SHORT STORIES

TIME TO GO

Michael Kandel

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

Steven Utley

THE END OF THE WORLD

Dale Bailey

AS WE KNOW IT

THE ANGST OF GOD

Michael Bishop

COLD FIRES

M. Rickert

OPAL BALL

121

Robert Reed

DEPARTMENTS

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

Charles de Lint

BOOKS

Robert K.J. Killheffer

FILMS: THE TOWN HOLLY-
WOOD COULDN’T FORGET

115

Kathi Maio

SCIENCE: A VISIT TO MARS

177

Pat Murphy and

Paul Doherty

COMING ATTRACTIONS

201

CURIOSITIES

242

David Langford

CARTOONS: Arthur Masear (30, 87), Joseph Farris (53),

Tom Cheney (69), Bill Long (127), John Jonik (176).

COVER BY BRYN BARNARD FOR “IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE”

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The Magazine of Fantasy &, Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 107, No. 4&5, Whole No. 633,
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Lisa Goldstein’s many novels include The Dream Years, Strange Devices of the
Sun and Moon, The Red Magician, Dark Cities Underground, and Tourists. There
are rumors afoot that she has begun writing under a pseudonym, but on this topic
she will only say that she is most definitely not writing as "Robin Hobb. ” Ms.
Goldstein writes short fiction much too infrequently for our tastes, but when she
does, the results are usually very interesting and enjoyable.. .as is the case in this
new take on a classic tale.

Finding Beauty

By Lisa Goldstein

O NE BY ONE THE WISE WOMEN

entered and sat in a circle around the cradle.
There was Betony, who had grown vague
and nearsighted over the years, and Bramble,
who shook with palsy and needed help sitting down. There was Juniper
with her endless knitting, and Tansy, whose cloak had turned the color of
the wall behind her, so that the eye slipped over her and moved on to the
next woman. And Anise with her coruscating gown of many colors, which
the older women dismissed as ostentation.

The queen sat quietly and rocked the cradle. She had the look of all
new mothers who have delivered a perfect child, smug and loving at the
same time. Without realizing it she had begun to hum a lullaby.

Finally all the women had arrived. The queen looked up at the witches
and smiled. "Please bless my son," she said. "Give him the virtues he'll
need to rule the kingdom, whatever you think he should have. I rely on
your judgment."

Betony, the oldest, went first. "He will be very handsome, the
comeliest in the kingdom," she said. Then they continued around the

FINDING BEAUTY

circle; Bramble gave him health, and Anise laughter, and Tansy the desire
to rule fairly and with wisdom.

The queen's attention wandered. Truth to tell, she did not believe
these women needed to bless her child, who was already flawless in every
way, but her husband had urged her to perform the ancient ceremony.
"You know these old hiddies," the king had said. "Flatter them, pretend
they're important. They could probably do some mischief if you don't go
through the motions with them."

She forced herself to listen. "I give him the gift of charm, " Juniper was
saying. "All will love him and delight in his company. He will be famed
for his grace from one end of the kingdom to the other, and the people will
call him Prince Charming."

How lovely, the queen thought. She smiled and gazed down at the
child.

The door to the nursery opened. A cold wind blew through the room,
brushing aside cloaks and skirts and scarves and tapestries. Candles
flickered perilously; one flame reached out hungrily to the hangings
around the hoy's bed before steadying.

"Charming? " the woman standing at the door said. "You always were
a fool. Juniper. You might as well have given him stupidity and be done
with it."

The woman came into the room and glared at the others. "Didn't
think to invite me, did you?" she said. She was stocky and gray-haired; in
this company of wild eccentrics she looked very ordinary, like someone's
grandmother. Who on Earth was she?

"You don't remember me, do you?" the woman said. The queen
stirred uncomfortably; had the witch read her mind? "I'm Yarrow. I was
at the coronation, and at your wedding too, dearie."

The queen opened her mouth to demand respect. Suddenly, though,
she did remember her. There had been a circle of witches at the wedding,
and yes, this woman had heen among them. Then she had disappeared,
gone back to the forest where she lived, and no one had mentioned her in
the years since. The queen had forgotten all about her.

"We sent a messenger to the forest for you," the queen said. Not for
nothing had the king insisted she learn diplomatic skills. "But he couldn't
find — "

FANTASY «i SCIENCE FICTION

"Liar," Yarrow said pleasantly. "Is that what you'll teach your son,
how to lie? Is that the ahihty you want me to give him?"

"No, no, please." The queen heard the fear in her voice. Ridiculous,
she thought. My husband could banish her over breakfast, without even
thinking about it.

"What about a delight in cruelty?" Yarrow said. "Would you like that
for your son? Or forgetfulness, the ability to forget a poor old witch hving
alone in the forest? Perhaps I should just make him feeble-minded, turn
his brains to porridge."

"No!" the queen said. She looked around the room. "Help me,
someone — please!"

No one moved. They were afraid of this woman, she saw, and her own
fear grew.

"I swear I didn't mean to shght you. I swear I would have invited you
if—"

"If you'd remembered, yes of course, dearie." Yarrow moved closer to
the cradle. "There are some things you just don't see. Not your fault, of
course — it's the way you were raised." She studied the infant. "Blind?"
she asked, meditatively.

"No!"

"No, all right, I have it," Yarrow said. The queen tried to stand but
could not move; some unseen force seemed to hold her back. Yarrow
raised her hand over the cradle. "I give you your destiny. There is a
princess who was once the desire of every man who saw her, a woman
surpassingly fair. But she fell into an enchanted sleep, and though many
men tried to bring her back to life none succeeded, and the world forgot
her. It will be your fate to quest for her and to find her while you are still
young. You will see her sleeping amid the ruins of her castle, and you will
kiss her. And at that kiss she will awaken, and you will marry her."

The queen let out her breath. "You — I — that — "

"That wasn't so bad?" Yarrow said. "Well, perhaps it wasn't."

The queen thought over everything Yarrow had said. A princess
surpassingly fair. A successful quest while the prince was still young. A
marriage. She could find nothing wrong. But then why was she so
frightened? Why had Yarrow's last words made her shiver?

"I — I thank you," the queen said, trying to keep her voice steady. She

FINDING BEAUTY

looked around the room. "I thank you all for your help, your wonderful
gifts. You are excused now." And she picked up the child and went out of
the room, leaving the witches to gossip behind her.

HE QUEEN FORBADE all mention of Yarrow's
I words, and she did her best to forget everything that had
I happened that day. She noticed with disgust that folks
began to call the prince Charming, a name which, after
what Yarrow had said, she no longer found as lovely, but she resigned
herself to it. If that was the only result of that dreadful day, she thought,
they had gotten off lightly.

She had to admit, though, that the boy lived up to his name. Everyone
loved him, from the cooks to the chamberlain; he knew all their names
and would stop and talk to them as if they were his dearest friends. And
while he talked to them he did seem to hold them in genuine esteem, but
when he left he would shrug them off and go on to the next person, and the
next, and charm them in turn.

In fact, the queen thought, the boy seemed somewhat feckless, unable
to stick with anyone or anything. She had once discovered him playing
cards with his tutor, and when she asked how long their lessons had been
neglected she was unable to get an answer from either one of them. The
cook slipped him extra desserts, and a whole host of boys came forward to
take the blame whenever anything in the castle broke or got lost.

It could be worse, though; the queen knew that. He could be.... But
she was never able to finish the thought; she would simply look at him and
smile, as charmed by him as all the rest.

When Charming was ten he came to her and asked about the enchanted
woman he was supposed to rescue. Someone had told him the story, then;
well, it was bound to get out, the way the people in the castle gossiped. She
repeated the prophecy in as offhand a tone as she could manage.

"I doubt it's true, though," she said. "Yarrow wanted to frighten us,
that's all. She was a bitter old woman."

"What did she say about the princess, though?" he asked. His eyes
seemed lit with excitement. "Will she be beautiful?"

The queen thought back. She had tried so hard to forget the prophecy
that she could truly not remember all of it. "Surpassingly fair, I think."

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"But fair could mean anything!" he said. "She could be beautiful, or
honest, or have a pale complexion...."

The queen's fear returned. Suppose the woman were honest but very
ugly? Could that have been what Yarrow had meant? The queen had not
managed to have other children; what if her grandchildren were hideous?
Would the people even acknowledge their rule?

Then she remembered something with relief. "No, she said that the
woman was the desire of everyone who saw her. She must be beautiful
then."

Beautiful or able to enchant people to desire her, the queen thought.
No — she would not think about it. Nothing bad would happen to her son.
And to her relief he appeared satisfied with her answers, and went away
looking thoughtful.

He seemed unwilling to let the subject alone, though. "How long will
this quest take?" he asked a few days later, while she was sitting at her
desk and planning the castle's meals. "She said I'll find this woman when
I'm still young — what's the oldest you can be and still be called young? "

"I don't know. Charming, truly."

"But I have to know how much food to take with me when I go."

Fear overwhelmed her, so that she saw and heard nothing for a while.
"You're not going anywhere until you're older, do you hear me?" she said
finally. "And if you do go on this ridiculous quest you'll take any number
of soldiers and hunters and trackers with you."

He came back a few days later, when she was embroidering with her
ladies-in- waiting. "What if I find her but I don't want to marry her?" he
asked.

The women laughed. "You can marry anyone you like, dearie," one
of them said.

The queen shivered at the word dearie, though she did not know why.
"Please, stop bothering me about this," she said to Charming. "Those
witches are nothing but a pack of confused old women. Anyway, I haven't
seen any of them since you were bom — they're probably all dead now."

"Father believes them."

That was tme; the king believed all sorts of things. He consulted the
ancient priests every morning and listened to their prophecies, and he
would do no work that day if the omens were unfavorable. It had been her

FINDING BEAUTY

husband, the queen remembered, who had asked her to invite the witches
to bless her child — and look where that had led.

"I don't want to discuss this anymore," she said.

The years passed. Charming stopped asking questions, though whether
he had forgotten all about Yarrow or was questioning others the queen
didn't know. For herself she managed to put aside Yarrow's words for
whole seasons, and there were times when she was even happy. But the
prophecy would come back to her at odd moments — in the midst of
banquets, or as she nodded off to sleep — and she cursed the woman with
all her heart.

Then, on the morning of Charming's eighteenth birthday, she awoke
to find him gone.

T he summer that year was mUd, the days

pleasantly warm. The trees hung heavy with fruit, so
that Charming had only to reach out for a pear or an
apple when he felt hungry. When evening came he went
a little ways off the road and tethered his horse and lay down, the nights
so balmy he did not even need a blanket.

He did not think about any of this. He had always had an easy time
of it, and he had never doubted that his quest to find the princess would
be more of the same. He did not think about the many years of peace that
had created the wealth he saw in the countryside, or how hard his father
the king had worked to keep his realm from war. He sometimes sang about
ancient quests as he rode, about heroes who had faced dragons and war and
death, but it did not occur to him to compare their situation with his own.

And it did not surprise him that he found what he sought a scant two
weeks after he started out. A miller he met told him a story about an
enchanted castle. "They say a princess lies sleeping in the ruins," the
miller said. "I've never heard of anyone who went to look, though."

Charming thanked him. As they parted the miller gave him a fresh
loaf of bread, though Charming had not asked for it, or told him who he
was. The prince thanked him again, by rote this time; he had long ago
grown used to people giving him things.

In the week that followed he found more and more people who knew
about the ruined castle. One of them told him that the princess was called

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Beauty, and at this his excitement grew. I knew it! he thought. I knew she
would be beautiful.

Finally one morning he squinted up at a mountain peak and saw a
mass of tumbled walls and fallen boulders. He sighed a little to himself —
the path up the mountain looked steep and difficult — but then he
shrugged and turned his horse toward the foothills.

The path was steep; he was sweating by the end. At the top he saw that
a briar hedge had once guarded the castle, but the plants had died
sometime over the years and his horse stepped over them easily.

Beyond the briar stood the wreckage of the castle walls. He hesitated,
wondering if he should clean himself before he presented himself to the
princess. But his eagerness and curiosity got the better of him and he urged
his horse over the fallen castle gate; the hooves made a hollow sound on
the rotting wood.

The floor within was marble. Whole sections of the roof had fallen in,
and he had to be careful where he placed his horse's feet. A dusky sun
shone through the gaps in the roof, illuminating worm-eaten tapestries
and broken furniture.

He explored the entire castle this way, moving from shade to sun and
back to shade again. He saw chairs and tables warped by rain, and rusted
swords and shields hanging against the walls, and the bones of small
animals who had starved looking for food. In one high tower he found great
piles of ruined books; perhaps a wise man had worked here, searching in
vain for an answer to the princess's enchantment.

He had had to dismount to climb the tower, and when he came back
down he continued from place to place on foot. A while later he found
himself exploring rooms he had already seen, and he realized he had gone
through the entire castle.

Could this be the witch's curse, that he would look for the sleeping
princess and not find her? If so it was a paltry curse, ridiculous even; he had
had a fine time on his travels, and he would come home with any number
of good stories to tell his friends. He left the castle and gazed up at the ruins
again.

This time he saw something he had missed before, a small tower near
the back. He went inside again and headed toward the tower. And yes,
there it was, a shaded alcove and stairs leading upward beyond it.

FINDING BEAUTY

He began to climb. His heart was beating loudly,- he could not
remember ever having this feeling of anticipation. The stairs ended at a
small circular room. A woman lay on a bed under a window.

He moved closer. His blood thrummed in his ears. And now he saw
the witch's terrible design, the purpose behind the curse she had laid on
him. The woman had aged along with the castle.

Her face was scored by lines, hundreds of them, and marred with
blotches. Her eyelids were thin as paper, her nose a bony beak, her mouth
sunken. Bristly hair sprouted from her chin and above her lips. The hair
on her head was gray, and so sparse that Charming could see patches of her
scalp; thin wormy strands reached to her thighs.

At the thought of her thighs the prince turned away, shuddering.
The witch had been fair, scrupulously so, he thought. Surely the princess
had been beautiful once, and surely men had quested for her without
success.

How old was she? A man he had spoken to on the road thought that
the enchantment had happened a hundred years ago; if the princess had
been, say, twenty, or even fifteen....

He shuddered again, but with pity and not disgust this time. He could
still give her a kiss, he thought; he did not see how he could be made to
marry her.

He forced himself to turned back. Now he noticed a sour odor coming
from her skin, the smell of old age. He took a breath and leaned over and
kissed her. Her lips tasted like dust.

She stirred. Horror and pity overwhelmed him. What had he done?
How could he have heen so stupid, why hadn't he let her sleep forever?
Could he call back his kiss?

No, she was stretching now, and opening her eyes. A cataract filmed
one eye, a gob like an egg white. She smiled; it was a young girl's smile,
the expression of someone who had grown used to being loved for her
beauty. Her teeth were gray. The prince took a step backward.

"Who are you?" she asked. "My legs hurt, and my arms. Have I been
ill? Why can't I see you properly?"

"You — " The prince cleared his throat. "You've been under an
enchantment."

"That's right," the princess said. "I remember now. A horrid old

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

woman said that I would sleep for a hundred years. And have I? " She tried
to push herself up but fell back on the bed, breathing heavily.

"Yes, my lady. You — "

The princess cried out. Her voice was hoarse, from age and from
disuse; her scream sounded like a rusty box being forced open. She had
brought her veined and misshapen hands close to her eyes. Charming saw;
they looked like bags of lumpy produce.

"What happened to me? What happened to my hands? Why can't I sit
up? Am I still under that evil woman's spell?"

He did not want to tell her. He wanted to run from the room, mount
his horse, and ride home as fast as he could. Someone else could come back
and take care of her, a friend or one of the castle servants.

He couldn't do that to her, though. "You've been asleep for a hundred
years," he said. "And in that time — "

"I've aged a hundred years?" Her voice rose in a screech on the last
words. "But I'm — I was eighteen years old. I was eighteen just yesterday!
How could I... what... oh, curse that woman! I'll kill her! My father will
kill her!"

She sat up, panicked. "Where's my father? Is he dead?"

He probably was, the prince thought. Now he understood the destruc-
tion he had seen in the castle: When they had not been able to break the
enchantment the people had fled, hoping to live a normal life elsewhere.
The king had probably grown old and died, along with the cooks and
washer-women and advisers and dressmakers and grooms.

Fortunately he did not have to tell her this, at least not yet. She had
doubled over and was sobbing and screaming, unable to believe her
terrible fate.

She cried until she was exhausted, and then fell asleep. When he was
certain she would not waken for a while he lifted her — she weighed
almost nothing — and carried her down the tower stairs and outside. He
found a cart in the stables and laid her in it gently, then fixed the cart to
his horse and headed home.

She slept for a long time. He felt relieved that he didn't have to talk
to her, or hear her terrible cries.

In the evening they stopped at an inn. As he took her in his arms her
eyes opened, but she said nothing and stared straight ahead of her, no

FINDING BEAUTY

emotion at all on her face. He carried her inside and got rooms for them
both. “Your grandmother?" the innkeeper asked, and Charming scowled
at him.

Her expression did not change as he took her to her room and set her
gently on the bed. He went to his own room, pulled off his boots, and lay
down.

He could not sleep,- he felt haunted by something he had not done. But
no one could have behaved better, he was certain of that. He would take
her home and give her into the care of his own physician, who would see
that she rested comfortably for the rest of her life. A short life, sadly, but
there was nothing he could do about that. He had lived up to his name, he
had been as charming as he knew how. They could ask nothing more from
him.

Still, he felt ashamed. He remembered how relieved he had been when
she had fallen asleep. He hated illness and disfigurement of all kinds; he
could not even look at beggars on the street but had to delegate one of his
friends to give them money.

He knew he lacked something, strength perhaps, or perseverance. He
knew that folks thought him frivolous, his amusements trivial; even his
best friends thought so. He had never cared until this moment, when he
wished profoundly he had something more to give her.

Well, the witches had named him Charming, after all. They had not
made him resolute, or valiant, or virtuous. He could not be blamed for his
faults; he was as they had created him. He rolled over and went to sleep.

He woke with a brilliant idea. Perhaps her enchantment could be
broken. He could talk to his father's priests, he could even find the wise
women who had blessed him. Yarrow might still be alive,- perhaps she had
arranged for him to find the princess so that he could cure her. And then,
when he had managed to roll back the years, she would emerge in all her
beauty, as she had been....

The thought made him queasy. How could he love her when he had
seen her in old age? He shrugged; he would answer that question when he
came to it.

A harsh cry came from one of the rooms. She had woken up. He stood
and hurried down the hall.

His journey home was as uneventful as the ride outward. The princess

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

either slept or stared ahead of her without speaking. She broke her silence
only once, when they came to another inn and Charming lifted her from
the cart.

"I can walk, you know," she said.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"Of course I'm certain. Put me down, you oaf."

He set her carefully on her feet. She took a few steps and then cried
out in pain.

He lifted her in his arms again. "Put me down!" she said. "This is all
your fault, for waking me up. I hate you!"

He continued to carry her; they both knew she couldn't walk. But the
childish words coming from the ancient face shocked him, and he had to
remind himself that despite what she looked like she was still a young
woman.

When Charming reached the castle he thought briefly of his parents
and how worried they must be, but instead of going to them he took the
woman to the royal physician's chambers.

"I can't do much for her," the physician said, after Charming had
related his story and he had studied the princess a while. "I can only ease
her hurts until she dies. She has but a few weeks to live, I think."

"What if I can undo the spell that put her to sleep?" Charming asked.

"You can't undo time, my lad, " the other man said. He opened several
of the tiny drawers where he kept his herbs and powders and began to mix
a potion.

The physician's words made little impression on Charming; he was
used to getting his own way. He went to his parents, and after they had
exclaimed in relief over his return he asked them about the wise women
of the kingdom. The queen did not remember any of them, or so she said;
Charming had always thought she knew more than she showed. But the
king took him to the Hall of Records and brought out an ancient
parchment with their names and vague directions to where they lived.

Charming tried to find Yarrow first, but the forest was wild and the
roads confusing, and the landmarks seemed to have changed over the
years. He found the others more easily, or at least their houses; Betony and
some of the others had died in the years since his birth.

Anise was still alive, though she no longer wore the changing colors

FINDING BEAUTY

his father had told him about. She invited him into the cottage and
insisted he take the most comfortable chair. The room was filled with
hanging plants, and an orange cat slept curled up on a blanket. Light made
dappled patterns on the floor, tinged with green by the leaves.

Anise served him tea and cinnamon bread and exclaimed over how
much he had changed since he was a baby. "I wanted to talk to you about
that day," he said. "When you all came and blessed me."

She listened carefully while he recounted his story. "I don't know any
enchantment like that," she said when he had finished. "Well, since I
blessed you at your birth I've had less and less to do with magic. What is
a spell, after all? Plant a seed and you make a flower. Strike a spark and you
create fire. Are these spells? When girls come to me for love charms I tell
them to comb their hair differently, and it seems to work just as well.
Perhaps the whole world is an enchantment, seen the right way."

"Do you know where Yarrow lives?" he asked.

"I haven't thought of her in years," Anise said. "She's in the forest
somewhere, isn't she?"

He thanked her, and she gave him a fresh-baked loaf of the bread to
take with him on his travels. As he rode away from her cottage he mulled
over the odd things she had said. He thought that the truth was just the
opposite, that the world needed more magic, not less. He could have used
a great many more blessings at his birth, though he had been too polite to
say so.

Finally he had tracked down all the living witches except Yarrow, and
had spoken to all his father's priests. No one knew how to break the
enchantment; a few of them told him frankly that his quest was impossible.

To everyone's surprise the princess did not die after a few weeks but
continued on weakly from one day to the next. The physician told
Charming that she seemed less devastated by her enchantment as time
went on. "She'll never accept it, of course," he said. "But she might not
be so angry when she dies."

Charming knew why the man was telling him all this; the physician
wanted him to visit the sickroom. But that, he knew, he could not do. He
did not have the courage to face her; he could barely stand to think about
her, disfigured by age and illness. More than that, he felt responsible for
her somehow, felt that, as she had said, it was all his fault.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

No, he would find a way to break the enchantment. He would visit her
only then, when he could bring her the glad news.

A year passed. His friends had stopped asking him to go drinking or
dancing with them; among themselves they considered him mad, perhaps
ensorcelled himself. They had never known him to pursue anything with
such urgency. And still the princess continued to live, her bony ribcage
rising and falling with each difficult breath.

The summer was a hard one, much worse than last year. A drought
had come to the land, withering the crops, and a horde of insects had taken
what little was left. The king worked day and night, talking to his priests,
working out ways to divert water, bargaining with nearby kingdoms for
grain.

Charming barely saw him. But he would not have seen him in any
case; he spent all his time away from the castle. He rode far and wide,
looking for wise men and women or searching the twisting paths of the
forest for Yarrow.

In the countryside he saw field after field of dead crops. The castle still
had a storehouse of grain, and Charming shared as much of his food as he
could with the hungry folk he met on his travels. He had never seen the
people of the kingdom so wretched, and he tried again and again to think
of ways to help them. There was nothing he could do, though, and he
returned to the task that had been given to him, the breaking of the spell.

Summer became autumn, and then winter. Charming rode out
unprepared for the cold and caught a chill. The physician insisted that he
rest in the sickroom, though he felt anxious to be on his way; every day
he delayed could be the day the princess died.

He spent long dreamy days in the sickroom. The floor was old scuffed
wood, the walls whitewashed, the bed clean and comfortable. Candles
burned; herbs smoldered in pots in the comers. The room had a window
but he never rose to look out of it; instead he followed the progress of the
sun by watching its light move slowly across the floor and up the opposite
wall.

He had strange fever dreams, where princesses and priests, children
and cats and forests all combined into one great story. In these dreams he
seemed to understand everything, seemed to hold the answer to all his
questions, but when he awoke all his insights slipped away.

FINDING BEAUTY

One day he heard laughter coming from another room. The physician
said something, and an old woman answered. No, not an old woman. The
princess.

He sat up, his heart pounding. His first thought was to run, though the
princess could have no idea that he lay just down the hall from her. He fell
back and tried to calm himself. He did not have to see her; he would leave
the sickroom in a few days and never come back. . . . But she was laughing,
he thought. What did she have to laugh about?

The physician came into his room. "Was that — were you talking to
the princess?" Charming asked, though he was certain he had recognized
the voice.

"Yes," the physician said.

"How is she?"

"She's doing quite well."

"Well?" he said, feeling a sudden hope. "Do you mean — have you
broken the enchantment?"

"No, of course not. The enchantment that holds her can't be broken,
not by magic or medicine. No, I mean that she cries less, and sometimes
she even laughs."

"Why was she laughing?"

The physician studied him. "Why don't you visit her yourself? You're
well enough to spend a few minutes with her."

Charming shook his head. He felt ill, as though his fever had returned.
And he hated himself for his cowardice in front of the other man, though
he knew that no one had ever expected more from him. He would rest, be
as charming to the physician as ever, and then leave the sickroom for good.

He continued to hear the conversations between the two. In one of
them the princess laughed again, and he thought about walking down the
hall and knocking on her door. He knew how to enter a room, at least; he
had spent hours practicing an offhanded manner that looked simple but
was in fact terribly difficult. But in the next moment she began to sob, and
the physician lowered his voice and spoke in soothing tones, and he sat in
his bed and felt bile come into his throat.

Finally the physician told him he was well enough to leave. He
dressed in the clothes he had arrived in, then went to the door and opened
it. He stood there a while, uncertain. To his disgust he was trembling

FANTASY «>. SCIENCE FICTION

slightly. He could go to the left and visit the princess, or to the right and
continue as he had been, riding after the least rumor of a healer or wise
woman and ignoring everything else.

Without letting himself think about it he turned left. He walked up
to the door and knocked.

"Come in," a voice said.

He opened the door and went inside. The room was dim, and he
tripped over something on the floor. A graceful entrance indeed, he
thought, disgusted with himself.

"Oh," the woman said. "It's you. I thought it was the physician."

"No," he said.

His eyes adjusted to the light, and he could see her better now. She was
a little less thin, and her hair was combed and her eyes more alert, but she
still looked like a ruin of a woman, a dried-out hag. Lines scored her face
like ancient riverbeds.

His mind formed a courteous phrase about how well she seemed, but
the words stuck in his throat. "I came to see how you were," he said.

"How did you expect me to be?" she asked.

A good question. He struggled on. "Are you — are you resting
comfortably?"

She did not answer. Charming, who had talked easily to kings and
diplomats and serving maids, could not think of a single thing to say. The
silence grew intolerable. There had never been an empty moment in any
of his conversations; he had always rushed to fill them with jokes and
news and gossip.

He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Do you still hate me? "

"What? " She had been drifting, he realized, might not have even heard
his first question.

"You told me you hated me once. It was one of the first things you said
to me."

"Oh. No, of course not. It wasn't your fault." She struggled to
concentrate. "Why are you here?" she asked. "The true reason, this time."

"I — I wondered how you were. Truly."

"But you haven't visited in a year and a half. Why are you wondering
only now?"

Once again he could think of nothing to say, had no answer to her

FINDING BEAUTY

bluntness. She laughed. "I'm allowed to say whatever I like, to be as rude
as I want," she said. "People make allowances for you if they think you'll
die at any moment."

"But I did wonder about you. I think about you every day, every
moment. I've been very busy, though — I'm looking for a way to break
your enchantment."

She laughed again, louder. The laugh turned into a cough, which went
on and on. "Can you turn back time?" she asked when she could speak.

"You've been listening to the physician. Ignore him — he's a sour old
pessimist. I truly think I can find Yarrow and get her to undo her spell."

"He never said a word to me about this." She took a sip of water. "You
think I speak too frankly. I think no one's ever spoken frankly to you in
your life. And one of the things they might have told you is that you are
avoiding me, that you go off on this silly quest so that you don't have to
see me."

This was outrageous. "I don't need an excuse to avoid you," he said.
"I didn't have to visit you at all, but I heard your voice and I wondered how
you were. I've spent a year and a half trying to help you. I didn't expect
gratitude, but I thought — "

"Oh, but you did."

"What?"

"You did expect gratitude. You expected me to be grateful to you
forever for saving my life."

"Very well, maybe I did. Anyone would feel the same. Anyone would
want some acknowledgment of the work they've done, some thanks — "

"Why? I never asked for your help in the first place. If you'd bothered
to talk to me I would have said that your quest is hopeless, that I would
much rather have you pass the time with me, the way we're doing now."

"You can't believe that."

"Maybe at first I didn't. But I've come to realize that I will never be
free of this curse, that I'm trapped in this horrible body — "

"You don't know that," he said. She didn't answer. He pressed his
advantage, speaking into the silence. "And what did you mean when you
said that I was avoiding you? I'm under no obligation to visit you at all."

"That's true. But you do seem to be avoiding me, or avoiding
something."

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

He saw a way he could turn this dreadful conversation, head it toward
a familiar road. "Hard work, probably," he said. He smiled his most
engaging smile, then wondered if she could see it with her ruined eyes.
"That's what my father says, anyway."

"He does? " she asked. She had caught his mood, thank the gods. "And
does he have any reason for this opinion?"

"Quite a few reasons, actually." Charming realized he was standing,
and he took a seat near the bed and lounged in it, trying to look relaxed.
"I'm appalled at the amount of work it takes to run the kingdom. I told my
father I would hire men to do the work for me, and he said that looking
after those men was most of the work."

"My father said something similar," she said. "He didn't expect me
to take over the kingdom when he died, though. When I was bom a witch
told him that I would prick my finger and fall into an enchanted sleep, and
that I would be rescued by a prince. A handsome prince, actually."

"Really? " he said, feeling irrationally pleased. He hurried on. "But she
didn't teU you that you would age during your sleep?"

"No."

"Why did she do this to you?"

"My father cut down the forest where she lived. He said he had to, that
people needed to get from one town to another, that thieves lived in the
forest. ... I can't help but wonder if it was truly necessary. And if he would
have done it had he known what would happen."

"Of course he wouldn't have."

"No, probably not. He's — he could be cruel, though, especially when
someone stood in his way. Not at all like your father."

"You've met my father?"

"And your mother. Why are you so surprised? They visit me nearly
every week."

"They're good people," he said, realizing it only then. He had had
little to compare them to.

The princess yawned, then winced with some pain. "I'm afraid I tire
easily," she said.

"I'm truly sorry, my lady. I wasn't thinking. I've had a wonderful time
— can I see you again?"

She said nothing. He saw that he had hurt her, but how ? Perhaps it was

FINDING BEAUTY

when he called the visit wonderful, though any gentleman would have
said the same; he certainly hadn't been mocking her. And he realized to
his surprise that he had enjoyed himself, especially at the end; he had
almost forgotten what she looked like.

"Of course," she said finally, and he stood and left her.

He saw the princess every few days. He grew used to her forthright
conversation, and even took some pleasure in it; no one in the castle had
ever spoken so boldly to him. The physician had been right, he saw. She
had not accepted her fate, but in a year and a half she had found a way to
endure. Her courage amazed him; he knew that he himself could never
have been so brave.

"I heard what became of my father, and of my mother," she said one
day. She looked at him keenly with her one good eye, as if she expected
him to care so little that he would change the subject.

"Really? What?"

"They stayed in the castle for several years, trying to find someone to
break the witch's spell. But no one could, and eventually they began to fear
that they would fall under the same enchantment. I don't know why — the
witch hadn't cursed anyone but me. See, here's where I pricked my finger."

She held out her hand toward Charming. He nodded, though he could
see nothing but her knobs and veins.

"I suppose people fear what they don't understand," she went on.
Charming stirred uncomfortably; was she talking about him? No, it was
not her way to speak in hints; she came out and said what she thought.

"So the entire village moved. They fovmd a place a good distance away,
and they cleared the land for crops and built a new castle. But nothing they
did prospered, and the village disappeared. They tell me that some folks
moved again, but most of them seem to have died. Including — " She
faltered here. "Including my father and mother."

She began to cry. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling inadequate. It was a
feeling he often had around her.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she said. "I didn't even like my father
very much. Maybe that's why, because I never got to tell him so."

The idea that children could dislike their parents shocked him.
"Maybe," he said.

"Thank you."

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

"For what?"

"For listening to me. For letting me talk. For your understanding."

"I don't understand anything, my lady."

He stopped, feeling the worst sort of idiot. He should not have said
that; he should have pretended to knowledge, comforted her with illu-
sions. He was good at lies, the gods knew,- he had told them all his life.

But he realized uncomfortably that he could not lie to her. Perhaps he
did not want to waste what little time she had left with empty phrases. Or
perhaps her fierce honesty compelled the same from him.

He searched his mind for something to say, a few words that would
be kind but not dishonest. They sat for a long moment in silence. "I am
trying to understand," he said finally.

She looked drained, and he saw that he had tired her once, again.
"Thank you," she murmured, and closed her eyes.

"Good night, my lady," he said.

E STILL WENT OUT to search for Yarrow, though
he left the castle less and less often. The drought contin-
ued through the winter and into spring; creeks and rivers
dried up and the ground was nearly too hard to plow. In
the taverns and inns the farmers spoke of a disastrous harvest, of surplus
grain gone and nothing with which to replace it.

In one village he saw a crowd assembled in the village square,
listening intently while a man spoke and gestured in front of them.
Charming reined in his horse and dismounted and joined them.

He could make nothing of the man's speech; it was mostly nonsense.
The man mentioned ancient practices and promises unkept; if the royal
family would follow tradition, he said, shaking his fist, the rain would
come and the drought would end.

Charming frowned and rode on. He would have to tell his father about
this; when the common folk got strange ideas in their heads they could
become dangerous.

He went to his father's study when he returned. "What exactly did
this man say?" the king asked.

"Does it matter?" Charming said. "Something ridiculous. You have
to make some sacrifice so the rains will come again."

FINDING BEAUTY

“Was he talking about me or the royal family?"

"The family, I think." Charming laughed. "What — are you saying
that I have to sacrifice something? Should I cut my hair and walk around
in rags?"

"It's not a joke. There are old traditions — the priests have been
telling me about them."

"What traditions?"

"They're not certain. We've been prosperous for so long that most of
these rituals have been lost. The land has to be renewed, made fertile,
there has to be some sort of marriage...."

The prince laughed again. "With the land? How exactly does one take
the land to bed?"

"Don't be flippant about this," the king said angrily. "I'm going to see
my priests now. Do you want to come along?"

Of course Charming didn't want to come along. He started to say so,
then stopped, overwhelmed by an idea so terrible that for a moment he
couldn't breathe. His heart suddenly beat louder, drowning out all other
sound.

"No," he said finally.

The king nodded, as if he expected no more from his son.

When the king had gone Charming went to a bay window. There was
a window seat, but he stood and looked out at the castle entrance. A long
line of people stood there, most dressed in rags and covered in dust from
the road. They had traveled a long way to petition the king for grain, he
knew, and he knew as well that there was no more grain to give them.

He sat and forced himself to think about the princess. He had come
to like her, to look forward to their time together. The horror she had been
through had somehow made her wise, wiser even than the witches he had
spoken to along the length and breadth of the kingdom. He thought of the
empty, easy conversations he had had with his old friends; these friends
now seemed like mirrors, showing him whatever he wanted to see.
Compared to them the princess was real, solid, the world that lay beyond
the mirror.

But he had never touched her. Once or twice he had wanted to, had
nearly rested his hand on hers to comfort her, but something within him
had cringed at the thought. How could he. ..would he be able to....

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

For he would have to marry her. That was what the man in the village
square had meant, and his father's priests, and what Yarrow had proph-
esied. She was the land, withered and dried, and he was the ruler who
would make her fertile again.

He had no choice in this, he knew. His father could not do it; his father
was already married. And he was coming to understand that the king, or the
king's son, served the people; that the people were not there for the pleasure
of the king. You could not do things just because you had the power to do
them; you could not chop down a forest without thinking of the consequences.

He should go, then, and ask for her hand. But he could not move, and
he cast around desperately for a way to avoid his duty. He could say
nothing, and the land would continue to sicken and die. Or he could get
one of his friends to marry her; perhaps a substitute would work just as
well. He sat by the window for a long time, watching as the sun set beyond
the houses and streets and squares of the city.

Finally he came to the end of his excuses. He stood, took a lamp from
the wall, and went to the princess's sickroom.

He knocked but there was no answer. She must be asleep, then. His
question could not wait; he opened the door.

She stirred. He felt a mad reckless laugh rise within him; surely she
would be overjoyed at his proposal. "Will you marry me?" he asked.

"What?" she said, struggling to come awake.

"I've come to ask for your hand," he said. The lamp shone full on her
face and he moved it away quickly, to one of the comers.

"Are you dmnk? Or did one of your friends put you up to this?"

"What? No, I want to marry you."

"No you don't."

"Yes, tmly — "

"Get out. Get out and don't come back until you're sober. Better yet,
don't come back at all. They told me you were a fool, but I didn't see it.
Now it looks as if they were right all along."

"No, listen. Please listen to me. The priests say that someone from
the royal family has to wed the land, to make the land fertile again. And
so I thought — "

"You thought I was the land. Dried out, used up, wasted, barren...."

"No," he said. "I mean yes, I think you might be the land. And if we

FINDING BEAUTY

wed, well, the land might be renewed. And you might be renewed as well,
you might regain your youth...."

That last was a lie, he realized. Somewhere in his long quest he had
stopped believing he could find a way to cure her. He trailed off, unable to
continue.

"I don't want to marry you," she said.

"Why not?"

She laughed. "No one has ever refused you anything, have they? You
look so puzzled. How could she possibly turn me down, you're thinking.
Who else could she get to marry her?"

She had read his mind again. It was hopeless, the whole thing — he had
not counted on her pigheadedness. He would turn around and go, never
come back....

No, he wouldn't. "The land has to be saved," he said. "People are
dying of hunger, there's no more grain in the storehouses. ... You have to
help us, whatever you think of me. Please. I beg you."

She laughed again, softer this time. "Prince Charming is begging me.
If only your youthful conquests could see you now."

Whatever he said now would be the wrong thing. He held his breath,
praying to gods he only vaguely remembered.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

"I — " He met her gaze squarely, the good eye and the damaged one.
"No, I don't. I'm sorry. I like you very much, though."

"I've come to love you. I'm afraid," she said. Her mouth crooked in a
smile. "Well, everyone has to, don't they? You're so charming. I tried not
to, but I couldn't help it. Even when you were so — so inept, when you
tried to comfort me at first. It was endearing."

"They why won't you marry me?" She said nothing. "I don't under-
stand. What do you want from me?"

"Tell me you'll never hurt me."

"But I can't lie to you!" he said in frustration. "How can I keep from
hurting you if I have to tell you the truth?"

"Don't you see?" she said. "It's the lies that cause me pain."

His parents were the only witnesses at the wedding. His mother cried,
though for reasons other than the traditional ones. She had tried to talk

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

him out of the marriage; what if, she said, the wretched woman didn't die
for years? Already she had lived far longer than anyone expected. What
about Charming's duty to provide heirs for the kingdom?

Charming had shrugged. He did not think the princess could live
much longer, but whatever happened he knew he would stay with her
until one or the other of them died. His father had said nothing, but
Charming would never forget the look of surprise that had appeared on his
face.

Now the priests were asking him to kiss his bride. He did, remember-
ing the first time in the deserted tower.

The ceremony ended. No one applauded, as was the custom; his
parents and the priests murmured a few words of congratulations and left.

Charming picked up his bride — she had grown no heavier in the years
— and carried her to his rooms. He laid her on the bed.

"Careful," shesaid, and he remembered that she had told him that she
had never had a lover, that her father had guarded her close.

Gently, very gently, he undid her dress. He ran his hands over her dry
flesh, her shriveled breasts. "Don't worry, " he said. "I promised I wouldn't
hurt you."

Outside, rain pattered against the window.

We can’t smoke on om planet.

Books To Look For

CHARLES DE LINT

File Logic, by Laurie J. Marks,
Tor Books, 2002, $25.95.

Eaith Logic, by Laurie J. Marks,
Tor Books, 2004, $25.95.

A fter a hun-

dred-plus install-
ments, regular
readers of this col-
umn probably know my complaints
about high fantasy by heart, having
heard them so often, but for anyone
new to the argument, let me briefly
reiterate:

Over the past few decades, writ-
ers of what's marketed as high fan-
tasy appear to have taken for their
books the inspiration of the big
battles one finds in Tolkien, the
background coloring of magical be-
ings and talismans, but ignored the
sense of wonder that drew so many
readers to the field in the first place.
These days high fantasy novels are
not much more than war novels,
with battalions of ores and elves in
the place of human army divisions.

their presence making it a "magi-
cal" book.

In fact, while these books have
the look of Tolkien about them,
they're much closer in spirit to what
used to be called heroic fantasy, or
sword and sorcery.

Now whether this is due to a
nostalgia for the golden days of my
youth, and the artistic endeavors
that created excitement for me then
(the way, for many of us, the music of
our teen years forever retains a warm
glow), or a true lack of variety, I find
myself constantly missing the way
the fantasy field was when I first
discovered it in the seventies.

There weren't as many books
available, true, but they were all
different. When you started a book,
you had no idea where it would
take you. What you did know was
that it would go someplace you
hadn't been before. And it would
deliver that sense of wonder — the
little buzz of the impossible made
real that you don't find in a main-
stream hook.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

(This was helped, perhaps, by
the fact that there weren't as many
contemporary authors writing fan-
tasy at the time, so to fill their
lines, publishers went back and ran-
sacked the vast library of books
published earlier, before there even
were genre designations. It's not
too hard to have a varied line when
you have a century or so of already
published books to draw on.)

But the real point I should have
been making all along is that what
annoys me isn't so much the books
themselves, but how they're mar-
keted as high fantasy when they're
clearly not. I don't know who's to
blame for this — the publishers, the
writers themselves, their agents —
but we get series after series foisted
off on us that have all the grit of
secular combat, but none of the
heart of one of the great Romances,
and certainly a lack of wonder. But
they call it high fantasy nevertheless.
In these books we'U find battles and
campaigns and political maneuver-
ing, but no marvels invoking awe
and mystery. The marvels in most
high fantasy these days are merely
fancy weapons, or a special kind of
warrior whose racial background
(elf, troll, whatever) makes him or
her a one-of-a-kind heroic figure.

So, really, my argument has
been unfair, comparing apples to

oranges, and the only reason it ever
came up is because of genre desig-
nations. If they'd called it "military
fantasy," I'd have had no cause to
complain.

The other point I should make
— which has probably been obvi-
ous to many of you all along — is
that there have been any number of
wonderful military fantasies pub-
lished to date, and no doubt there
will be many more.

Laurie J. Marks's books are a
perfect example. Or at least the first
volume Fire Logic certainly is, al-
though interestingly enough, while
she is working on an exemplary
model of a war fantasy series (I
know there are only two so far, but
one assumes there will at least be
volumes with "air" and "water" in
their titles), by the second book,
she's already subverting the con-
ventions I've laid out for a war fan-
tasy novel and slipping in... a sense
of wonder.

But I'm getting ahead of my-
self.

Fire Logic introduces the land
of Shaftal, a peaceable kingdom
where at one time elemental
witches, with their powers for heal-
ing, truth, joy, and intuition, were
revered. Now the land is under the
yoke of a conquering army of
Sainnites, and the Shaftali have

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

become guerrilla warriors, harrying
the marauders.

A quartet of characters share
the main stage: the Paladin Emil, a
fire elemental who would rather
study and collect old books than
lead a company of guerrillas against
the Sainnites; Zanja na'Tarwein,
another fire elemental, an emis-
sary of the mountain-dwelling Ash-
awal'ai, who learns that her remote
tribe is in danger from the invaders,
but can't convince them of it; Karis,
a giant blacksmith and rare earth
elemental who could defeat the
Sainnites and lead her people into a
peaceable future if she weren't ad-
dicted to a deadly drug; and Norina,
the air elemental Truthkin who can
see through any lie, but is blind to
the dangers that lie in wait for her
charge Karis.

File Logic is definitely a novel
of war and intrigue — both of which
can fuel drama in the most com-
mon novel (for there's not much
that's more dramatic on an imme-
diate level), but Marks's book is
anything but common. And while
the military aspects are certainly
integral to the storyline and the
entwining lives of her characters,
Marks spends as much time delv-
ing into the wonderfully complex
and messed-up inner lives of her
characters, in prose that never gets

in the way of the story but is still
stylistically gorgeous.

And most intriguingly, about
two thirds of the way into the book,
the low-key magical facets of her
characters' elemental magics rise
away from simply being fancy
"weapons" and evoke — for both
the readers and the characters —
that elusive sense of wonder cited
above.

The book ends satisfyingly. Yes,
there are unfinished threads, but it
is a real novel with a beginning,
middle, and end. You're not com-
pelled to read the next one in
cliffhanger terms, but I can't imag-
ine anyone not wanting to do so.

Eaith Logic picks up with the
characters from the first book, but
adds into the mix sections from the
viewpoints of some of the Sainnite
characters, in particular the half-
Sannite philosopher and fire el-
emental Medric (first introduced in
the earlier book and now allied with
that novel's core group of charac-
ters), and Lieutenant-General Clem-
ent, a female officer of the Sainnite
forces in Shaftal.

The military aspect is still
present, but it's complicated by a
deadly plague that doesn't distin-
guish between Sainnite and Shaftali.
Marks doesn't take the easy way
out by having them come together

FANTASY 81 . SCIENCE FICTION

in brotherhood to combat this men-
ace. Her solution is a longer,
stranger, and far more complicated
story than that, though the climax,
when it does come, evokes that
elusive sense of wonder again, rather
than military might.

The whole feel of the book is
emotionally larger and mythic, and
the latter isn't due simply to the
Native American-like fables that
introduce each of the book's five
parts. It infuses the whole of the
novel, particularly those sections
from the viewpoints of the Shaftali
characters, which play wonderfully
against the common sense, on-the-
front-lines of the main Sainnite,
Lieutenant-General Clement.

By this second book, the series
has gained an overall title — Elemen-
tal Logic — which appears to prom-
ise more stories to come. And since
the second volume plays as fair as
the first (it's a complete novel, of
and by itself), and is, if anything,
even better written than the first,
I'm certainly looking forward to
what Marks comes up with next.
We might have to wait another two
years for the next one, but it will be
worth the wait.

I've spent some time on these
two books (with one of them being
older than I'd normally consider
covering in this column) for two

simple reasons. The first is easy;
they're two of the best books I've
read in a very long time. The second
is because it gave me a chance to
address this whole idea of military
fantasy from a different side than I
have in the past. The lessons are
twofold as well: one should never
generalize, and no matter how much
you think you don't read a certain
kind of book, there are always going
to be examples that transcend your
expectations.

The trick is figuring out which
ones they are, because many of the
novels marketed as high fantasy
really are just military books with a
vague fantasy element that is often
played up more on the cover than it
will be anywhere inside the actual
pages.

Dead Witch Walking, by Kim
Harrison, Harper Torch, 2004,
$6.99.

Now that I've just said we
shouldn't generalize, Kim Harri-
son's debut novel is what I think of
as a "mundaning of magic" book,
by which I mean it sets up a world
(often very like our own) where
magic, or at least magical beings,
are so common that they're inter-
changeable with the "real world."
If you have a headache, you take a

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

potion instead of a painkiller. Vam-
pires, witches, and the like walk
shoulder to shoulder with ordinary
people, and everyone is often aware
of the other.

For touchstones, think of Glen
Cook's Garrett books, or novels by
Tanya Huff, Charlaine Harris, or
even Terry Pratchett, since there is
often an undercurrent of humor, if
not outright wisecracking and silly
situations involved.

These sorts of books also owe a
debt to the mystery genre, since
many of them feature private eyes,
or "ordinary" people solving mys-
teries, frequently murder. (I put
"ordinary" in parentheses because
the narrator/PI is often a witch, or a
vampire, or something of that sort.)

In other words, the concept of a
sense of wonder doesn't exist be-
cause the magic is too common and
spread too broadly across the play-
ing field.

It doesn't bother me, though.

Mostly it's because the book is
marketed fairly. It's made obvious
that these books aren't pretending
to be anything other than what they
are: fun, often exciting forays into
some strange mishmash world of
mystery and fantasy.

Harrison posits a world like
our own, but one in which magical
beings have been outed and now

live in a somewhat uneasy associa-
tion with more ordinary people. The
mundane world is policed by the
Federal Inderland Bureau (and what
do you know, we end up with a play
on a familiar acronym), the magical
by Inderland Security (IS).

Rachel Morgan is a witch who
works for the IS, but quits on the
night that opens the book because
she feels that someone in the office
is undermining her ability to get
clean arrests, never mind decent
cases. Another IS operative, the
vampire Ivy Tam wood, quits with
her and they go into partnership as
Pis along with a pixy named Jenks.

But the IS just doesn't like its
operatives to quit. Ivy is able to buy
out her contract with them, but
Rachel can't, so she ends up on the
IS's hit list. She realizes that the
only way to stay alive is to bring the
IS a bust so spectacular that they'll
have to let her out of her contract.
But that's hard to do with every
kind of assassin — from fairies to
demons — out to collect the bounty
on her.

Dead Witch Walking isn't a
Big Think book, but it's fast-paced
and loads of fun — the perfect read
when you want to just get away
from things for a bit and vicariously
live the life of someone a lot worse
off than you, but who views the

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

world and its problems through the
prism of a quick-witted wiseacre.

Gothic Wine, by Darren Speegle,
Aardwolf Press, 2004, $14.95.

All art is subjective, but the
visual arts are so immediate — most
often they wire directly into our
hrains through our eyes, without
reason even getting a chance to con-
sider the impressions we're receiv-
ing — that we tend to have strong,
impulsive reactions to them. That
said, to this reader. Gothic Wine
has a truly cheesy cover that in no
way conveys the elegance of the
prose to he found on the pages in-
side. If I hadn't read the hook in a
coverless format. I'd have been hard
pressed to actually open it.

I wasn't familiar with Darren
Speegle before reading this first col-
lection of his, so if I had let myself
judge it by its cover, 1 would have
missed a real treat.

I get the impression that
Speegle was bom outside of Europe
and moved there, specifically to
Germany, later in life — perhaps in
his twenties or thirties. The reason
I bring this up is that the stories
here are all infused with that won-
derful enthusiasm for new sur-
roundings — the landscape and
people, and their history — with a

loving attention to detail that one
wouldn't necessarily get from a
native writer. Often, we take our
home turf too much for granted and
only see it with proper respect
through a newcomer's eyes.

Or, as in the case of a non-
European reader reading Gothic
Wine, we get to view a new setting
through particularly Romantic eyes.

The wine country in which
Speegle sets many of his stories
sounds wonderful — except for the
dangerous and weird things await-
ing the unsuspecting visitor in its
shadows. All of which makes for
very fine reading. But while this is
an exquisite collection of literate
and evocative stories — opening up
a window into a fascinating, if ee-
rie, Europe — I suspect that we
should only visit these wineries,
old churches, and grape fields in the
pages of Speegle's collection. That
way we stand a better chance of
surviving to read his next one.

If your local bookstore doesn't
carry this book, you can try ordering
it directly from www. aaidwolfpress.
com.

Stozy Time, by Edward Bloor,
Harcourt, 2004, $17.

Although he has a couple of
previous novels under his belt

BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

(Crusader and the award-winning
Tangerine), Edward Bloor is a new
writer for me. I discovered him the
way I do most of my new writers:
the book arrived in my P.O. box and
I opened it to the first page and read
a bit to see what it was like.

Yes, I do actually look at all the
books that arrive. Unfortunately, I
can't possibly read or review them
all, but they all get that test of my
trying the first page, only stopping
when I get bored.

In the case of Story Time, that
just didn't happen.

It starts with the irrepressible
teenager Kate Peters and her Uncle
George (who's actually two years
younger than she), practicing a fly-
ing number from Peter Pan in their
backyard on a device invented by
George. George is a genius and he's
just been accepted by the Whittaker
Magnet School for kids like him.
But through the strange shifting of
school zones that the Whittaker
Magnet School seems to be able to
set into motion, Kate has to go as
well.

It's a horrible place, dedicated
to having and maintaining the high-
est test scores in the nation. To
accomplish this, every class — and
they're held in dreary, windowless
rooms in the basement of the
Whittaker building, the other eight

floors of which are taken up by a
library — consists solely of the stu-
dents taking tests. They're not ac-
tually learning anything except how
to do well on tests.

Kate hates it, of course, because
she's been looking forward all sum-
mer to attending a regular public
school and hoped to get the lead
role in the school's upcoming Peter
Pan production. So she starts to
snoop, to see if she can find a way
out, and ends up learning far more
than she bargained for:

Mysterious deaths, haunted
books. . .the Whittaker Building isn't
any more safe than it is cheerful.

Bloor writes with a breezy, ir-
reverent wit. Many of the charac-
ters — mostly the villainous ones
— are broad caricatures, but they're
still amusing, and he makes up for
their single dimensions with Kate's
personality and a number of other
colorful characters, such as the li-
brarian who only speaks in nursery
rhymes, or Kate's grandparents who
spend their every spare moment
practicing clog dancing.

Like Dead Witch Walking, it's
hardly a Big Think novel, but cer-
tainly enjoyable from start to finish.

It's a Bird. . . by Steven T. Seagle
& Teddy Kristiansen, Vertigo, 2004,
$24.95.

What's probably most unusual
about this book is that it's a Super-
man title being pubUshed by V ertigo,
DC's edgier line that specializes in
material that's pretty much the
antithesis of traditional superhero
comics. But then, Superman's only
on the periphery of the main
storyhne, and he's a fictional char-
acter, as well. (I know; he's fictional
in his own comics, but you know
what I mean.)

Instead, the story focuses on a
comic book writer who has been
given the plum assignment of writ-
ing a Superman comic, but unlike
his contemporaries, he has no in-
terest in doing so. What follows is a
meditation on what the realities of
an alien such as the Superman char-
acter existing in the real world
would be, intermingled with a
tangle of memories and fears cen-
tering around the writer's struggle
with Huntington's Disease, a de-
bilitating genetic muscle disorder
that has incapacitated a number of
his relatives, and one that he fears
he will one day contract himself.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Along the way we're treated to
the writer's interactions with his
editor, a fellow writer, his girlfriend,
and various members of his family,
including his father who has inex-
plicably gone missing.

It’s a Biid... is apparently a
semi-autobiographical story, and
with it, S eagle delivers a moving
portrait of the complicated pro-
cesses an artist must go through to
create his art and make sense of the
confusion of everyday hfe.

Kristiansen's art is a treat, per-
fectly suiting the wry delivery of
the story with panels that range
from realistic to almost-caricature.

The two have worked together
before (most notably in House of
Secrets, also for Vertigo), but this is
without a doubt their most ambi-
tious and successful collaboration
to date.

Material to be considered for
review in this column should be
sent to Charles de Lint, P.O. Box
9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1 G
3V2.

Books

ROBERT KJ. KILLHEFFER

White Devils, by Paul Mc-
Auley, Tor, 2004, $25.95.

The Zenith Angle, by Bruce
Sterling, Del Rey, 2004, $24.95.

Fozty Signs of Rain, by Kim
Stanley Robinson, Bantam, 2004,
$25.

FEW months
back I re-read
John Brunner's
classic eco-dis-
aster novel The Sheep Look Up (re-
issued in 2003 by BenBella Books).
It had been twenty years since I first
read it, and I was struck by its inten-
sity, the passion and urgency with
which Brunner addressed the envi-
ronmental concerns that had be-
come an insistent cultural theme
in those days (and remain so in
ours). I was surprised by the firm,
even extreme, position Brunner
took on the issues. He hedged no
bets and pulled no punches. This was
the sf novel as eco-political tract.

What different days those were
— 1972, the activist energy of the
'60s still glowing Uke embers on
the world's hearth, sf in the midst
of its golden age of social conscious-
ness, tackling subjects Uke war, rac-
ism, gender relations, colonialism.
Those years gave us Harry Harri-
son's Make Room, Make Room!
( 1 966), Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left
Hand of Darkness (1969) and "The
Word for World Is Forest" (1972),
Joe Haldeman's The Foievez War
(1974), Joanna Russ's "When It
Changed" (1972) and The Female
Man (1975).

Heady times.

I grew up reading this radical,
visionary stuff, and sometimes I
miss the heat and the energy — the
full-throttle engagement with the
issues, the unabashed challenging
of the status quo — that marked
some of the best sf of that era. Of
course, sf writers continue to ad-
dress the socio-political issues of
the times, but the times have
changed, and with them the style

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

and tone of si's handling of such
topics. Social issues rarely form the
center of sf novels today, the way
they did in The Sheep Look Up —
matters like the corporate domina-
tion of the world economy, the ex-
tinction of endangered species, and
relations between rich nations and
poor often shape the background
against which the action takes place,
but seldom become the focus or
driving force of the action itself.

Take a look, for example, at
Paul McAuley's latest novel. White
Devils. McAuley began his career
with well-crafted space operas (Fom
Hundred Billion Stars, Eternal
Light), and he has made his greatest
impression so far with the epic far-
future trilogy Confluence, but his
more recent novels (The Secret of
Life, Whole Wide World) have had
a near-future setting in which some
grappling with today's social prob-
lems becomes almost inevitable.
White Devils takes place about
thirty years from now in an Africa
that's in even worse shape than it is
today. It suffers from the widespread
war and post-colonial dysfunction
that afflict much of the continent
now, and that instability has made
it the favorite locale of experiment-
ers on the further fringes of genetic
engineering.

Young, idealistic Nicholas

Hyde works for Witness Green
Congo, digging up mass graves and
documenting atrocities from the
still-simmering Congolese civil
war, but the first "hot scene" he's
called to investigate turns out to be
the work of something other than
sadistic soldiers. Hyde's team has
hardly begun to study the scene
before it's attacked by a band of
hairless white ape-hke things, mon-
sters with an unnatural ferocity,
speed, and "bony or cartilaginous
plates" under their skin that could
only be the product of laboratory
engineering.

Nick survives the attack, and
saves a baby from the massacre site,
which makes him suddenly a mi-
nor celebrity in the world media.
But Obligate, the multinational
corporation that effectively controls
the Congo, doesn't want the truth
about what happened to Nick's
team to get out. They're blaming
rebel soldiers and ehminating all
the evidence of the "white devils"
— including anyone who knows
more than they should. Only Nick's
media profile keeps him safe long
enough to escape from the Congo in
pursuit of the secret of the white
devils, which he's determined to
discover and reveal to the world.

McAuley's got a talent for open-
ings, and the first several chapters

BOOKS

of White Devils grab hold so well
that they just about propel the reader
through the rest of the book. And
that's good, because somewhere
in the middle the plot goes a bit
slack. The first half of the book
maintains a keen sense of plausibil-
ity — the attack by the white dev-
ils, the glimpses of life in the Congo,
the science of gene splicing and
cloning, it's all handled with con-
vincing detail that overcomes the
predictability of the corporate-
coverup scheme. The second half
of the book, however, spends all
too much time on cartoonishly
malevolent characters like the fop-
pish safari entrepreneur Raphael
and the Christian fundamentalist
mercenary Cody Corbin. Still, there
are scattered throughout some
very fine moments, such as the
encounter with Raphael's ragged,
pitiable engineered saber-toothed
tiger — a perfect encapsulation of
the inevitable gap between genetic
engineering's promises and its prod-
ucts.

Scattered throughout also are
observations on a wide variety of
social issues — the neo-colonial-
ism of multinational corporations,
America's obsession with guns, the
enforced conformity of corporate
culture. None of these issues be-
comes the center of the novel, hut

the commentary can be quite cut-
ting nonetheless:

The camp is such a wonderful
advertisement for Obligate's
philanthropy that there are
rumors it will be made perma-
nent. . . . The refugees work for
a guaranteed minimum wage,
stitching Obligate's Lotek
sneakers and clothing, assem-
bling slates and phones, carv-
ing Rainforest toys and masks,
and rolling Rainforest ciga-
rettes.... The camp provides
everything but the dignity of
self-determination for its in-
habitants; none of the video
diaries or documentaries
mention the crippling rates of
alcoholism, abortion, and sui-
cide, the skirmishes between
rival gangs, or the occasional,
brutally suppressed riots.

Even when it's as clear in its
condemnation as this, though, the
treatment of social issues feels dif-
ferent from that of The Sheep Look
Up and the novels of that time. It's
not just that the issues remain
firmly in the background, glimpsed
like bypassed train stations as the
plot moves steadily along. Despite
Nick's determination to resist
Obligate's pressure and get the story

FANTASY A SCIENCE FICTION

of the white devils out, the pre-
dominant mood of the novel is one
of resignation. In the very first scene,
Nick's boss tries to dampen Nick's
hopes of tracking the perpetrators
of atrocities: "This isn't a murder
investigation," he tells Nick.
"We're not here to bring anyone to
justice. All we can do is speak for
the dead. Document how they were
murdered, try to find out their
names and their stories, and if noth-
ing else give them a decent burial."

That's the feeling we get about
all the evils on display in White
Devils — that the best we can hope
to do is play witness, to document
the horrors, not to prevent them.
Maybe that's the awful truth. If so,
then although the world McAuley
depicts seems not nearly as grim as
Brunner's, White Devils is a much
bleaker book.

With his previous novel, Zeit-
geist (2000), Bruce Sterling moved
away from the vmquestionably sci-
ence-fictional into less easily de-
finable territory, and in the pro-
cess he established himself as one
of the sharpest chroniclers of the
contemporary cultural landscape.
The Zenith Angle continues that
transformation. It might not be
science fiction at all — and yet,
imbued as it is with Sterling's

characteristic density of ideas and
his fondness for the geeky details of
computer networks and security
issues, it certainly feels like some
kind of sf. As Neal Stephenson did
in Cryptonomicon, SterUng evokes
the true strangeness of the tech-
nologies that are with us right now,
and makes our own world seem
more than a little alien.

The Zenith Angle begins (after
a brief prologue) on September 1 1,
2001, with cyber-security expert
Derek Vandeveer ("Van") happily
ensconced as the VP for Research
and Development at the New Jer-
sey telecommunications company
Mondiale, making "a weird amount
of money" as Mondiale rides the
tail-end of the dot-com boom. His
astrophysicist wife, Dottie, com-
mutes to her lab in Boston, and
they've got a new baby and a Swed-
ish au pair to help take care of him.
Van's got all the funding and equip-
ment his computer-nerd heart could
desire. Life is good. And then he
watches the planes hit the World
Trade Center towers.

Caught up in the post-attack
horror. Van joins the Coordination
of Critical Information Assurance
Board, a new commission set up by
the National Security Council to
plan the government's computer
security measures. Dottie takes a

BOOKS

job at an observatory in Colorado,
and the demands of Van's new posi-
tion make it nearly impossible for
them to see each other. Mondiale's
stock implodes in a scandal of fraud,
taking Van's wealth (and much of
his remaining innocence) with it.
In a few short months. Van's life
has fallen apart.

The bulk of the plot revolves
around Van's attempt to repair a
malfunctioning spy satellite, and
the high-tech espionage that he
uncovers in the process. But the
heart of the novel lies in Van's emo-
tional journey back from the rage
and disillusion that engulf him
while he's in Washington — and in
the electrified screeds Sterling
packs into every crevice of the nar-
rative. Sterling expertly captures
the feelings, the language, and the
style of the dot-com boom, and just
as capably conveys the shock and
devastation wrought by the Bubble's
sudden crash. "It was hard to be-
lieve — Van would never have imag-
ined it — but Mondiale, the mighty
Mondiale, was dot-bombing. . . . This
brave, heroic, visionary, cutting-
edge company — the bear market
was beating it to death like a cheap
toy pinata."

As Van slides from jejune opti-
mism into depths of anger, self-
doubt, and despair, and then works

his way back to a wiser state of
relative happiness, Sterhng takes
every opportunity to drop in nug-
gets of penetrating observation and
opinionated rant on a variety of
issues — superheated rhetoric remi-
niscent of his Cheap Truth days.

On computer science: "Com-
puter science was a fraud. It always
had been. It was the only branch of
science ever named after a gadget."

On terrorism: "Terrorists didn't
fight wars. The whole point of ter-
rorism was to kick a government so
hard, in so tender and precious a
spot, that the government went nuts
from rage and fear. Then the ma-
chinery of civilization would pour
smoke from the exhaust. It would
break down. Back to the tribes and
the sermons, the blessed darkness
of a world without questions."

On the truth: "No, kid, the
truth does not win. For a couple of
quarters the truth gets somewhere
maybe. If everybody's real excited.
But never in the long run, never....
The common wisdom always wins.
Consensus, perception manage-
ment, and the word on the Street.
The markets, kid, the machine."

The cumulative effect of these
analyses — incisive as they are — is
a sense of resignation not unlike
that in White Devils. "It didn't
matter how good you were, how

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

smart you were," Van reflects. "No-
body ever 'fixed' computers. You
just threw the old computer out
and got another one. Any genuine
reform was impossible." Sterling
likens the wild dream of the Internet
boom to the space race of the '60s,
with emphasis on the bitter after-
math. "It was a tremendous,
wrenching effort in pursuit of the
sublime. People aiming for the
Moon, touching it for a golden mo-
ment, and being left with massive
bills and rusting gantries."

Like McAuley, Sterling may be
revealing hard-learned truths here.
And he may well have given us the
definitive novel of the dot-com dis-
aster, his generation's cultural mid-
life crisis. But it's difficult not to
wish for something, even a hint, to
balance the pervasive sense of ex-
haustion and retreat. Perhaps it's
too soon — perhaps we'll have to
wait for the hangover to pass before
we can expect to see another burst
of idealistic energy, another pur-
suit of the sublime. Let's hope we
don't have to wait very long.

Kim Stanley Robinson's new
novel. Forty Signs of Rain, centers
on the preeminent environmental
issue of our times — global warm-
ing, the perfect analog to pollution
in the '60s and '70s — and it's a

surprising, even peculiar book. It's
frightening, as any consideration of
impending catastrophe must be, but
in a quieter, more theoretical way
than a conventional disaster story.
For one thing, the disaster doesn't
fully strike during the course of
the story. (This is the first volume
of a trilogy, so things will prob-
ably get worse in the next install-
ment.) More importantly, Robinson
isn't so much interested in stoking
our fears as he is in rallying us to
action.

The book begins a few years in
the future — five, ten, hard to say
exactly — and the signs of climate
change have grown somewhat more
insistent, but life in the United
States (and most other places) goes
on essentially unchanged. The U.S.
government continues to respond
as it does today, downplaying the
evidence, emphasizing the uncer-
tainty of scientific prediction, opt-
ing for cosmetic half-measures over
any ambitious program to address
the problem. The first chapter opens
with the humdrum domestic rou-
tines of the Quiblers — Anna, head
of the Bioinformatics Division at
the National Science Foundation,
and her husband Charlie, climate
advisor to Senator Phil Chase, cur-
rently working from home while he
takes care of their toddler son, Joe.

BOOKS

There's lots of talk about the awful
consequences of climate change,
both at the NSF and in Charlie's
work for the senator, but it's clear
early on that Robinson is not inter-
ested in the melodrama of a stan-
dard disaster novel.

Forty Signs of Rain is more
concerned with examining the cul-
ture of science in the U.S., and why
it has failed to produce the political
action that its research clearly sup-
ports. In fact, the novel can be read
as Robinson's analysis of that prob-
lem, and his prescription for change.
Anna Quibler and, more stridently,
one of her program directors, Frank
Vandewaal, argue that scientists,
and organizations like the NSF, need
to become more activist, more opin-
ionated, more outspoken in debates
on public policy. "All that basic
research, all that good work, " Anna
muses, reflecting on the history of
the NSF, "and yet — thinking over
the state of the world — somehow
it had not been enough. Possibly
they would have to consider doing
something more."

Frank puts it in much stronger
terms: "The world is in big trouble
and NSF is one of the few organiza-
tions on Earth that could actually
help get it out of trouble, and yet
it's not. It should be charting world-
wide scientific policy and forcing

certain kinds of climate mitigation
and biosphere management, insist-
ing on them as emergency necessi-
ties, it should be working Congress
like the fucking NRA to get the
budget it deserves...."

Like Sterling, Robinson fills his
text with mini-lectures, and not
only on climate change. His riffs
cover topics such as evolutionary
psychology, traffic jams, the wid-
ening gap between rich and poor,
game theory, the challenges facing
the development of medical thera-
pies from biotechnology. And his
commentary hits as hard as any-
thing in White Devils: "[The
administration's] line was that no
one knew for sure and it would be
much too expensive to do anything
about it even if they were certain it
was coming. . .so they were going to
punt and let the next generation
solve their own problems in their
own time. In other words, the hell
with them. Easier to destroy the
world than to change capitalism
even one little bit."

There's no whiff of resignation
in Forty Signs of Rain — unless it's
in the fact that Robinson recog-
nizes that the unfashionability of
'60s-style activism may be the most
significant challenge to enacting
significant change. Where Brunner
wrote with unrestrained prophetic

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

fire, Robinson knows he's writing
at a different time, in a much differ-
ent cultural context. So he proceeds
more cautiously, building up slowly
to his call for scientific activism,
acknowledging all along the argu-
ments and instincts that might
make it hard to accept.

Surveying the capsule history
of the NSF on its web site, Anna
notes a program from the 1960s
called "Interdisciplinary Research
Relevant to Problems of Our Soci-
ety, " and her first thought is, "What
a name from its time that was!" But
then she pauses to reconsider.
"[C]ome to think of it, the phrase
described very well what Anna had
had in mind. . . . Interdisciplinary re-
search, relevant to problems of our
society — was that really such a
sixties joke of an idea?"

With such steps, Robinson

seeks to rehabilitate the activist
spirit that gave us The Sheep Look
Up and works like it — and, more
importantly, gave us the Clean Air
Act and measures like it. And
Robinson makes his case without
neglecting the other necessary as-
pects of a satisfying novel. His
characters are convincingly idio-
syncratic, and their emotional lives
receive almost as much attention
as their intellectual musings. The
cracking of Frank's bitter cynicism
is all the more moving because
Robinson accomplishes it without
devaluing Frank's dedicated ra-
tionalism. Forty Signs of Rain is a
fascinating depiction of the work-
ings of science and politics, and an
urgent call for us to pull our heads
from the sand and confront the
threat of climate change. We should
listen.

Michael Kandel works nowadays as an editor for the Modern Language Associa-
tion, but when he worked as an editor for Harcourt Books, he published novels by
Patricia Anthony and fonathan Lethem, to name but two. He himself is the author
of several novels, including Strange Invasion, Captain Jack Zodiac, and Panda Ray,
and he is also well-known for his translations of Stanislaw Lem’s work. His
current project is editing an anthology of monster stories translated from Polish.
“Time to Go” is a terrific example of Mr. Kandel’ s deadpan delivery and biting
wit.

Time to Go

By Michael Kandel

A unt bessie told me to

go pick up Uncle Carmine for the wed-
ding.

"It would be nice if he could make it," she said.

"No problem," I said.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "He's Jane's great-great."

"Jane Belcher?"

"Jane who was Prissie's great. Prissie who was Bob's mom. Bob
Senior."

I did a little mental arithmetic and whistled. "He must be over a mil. "
"It would be nice," she said with a half sigh. "Family roots and all
that. Mother Cora would like to see him. Do your best."

"Sure," I said.

Why did I always get these kinds of jobs?

FANTASY 8i SCIENCE FICTION

Uncle Carmine looked fine. Not a wrinkle on him. No blemishes or
blotches to speak of. He obviously kept in shape and had his repair work
done regularly.

"Who are you again? " he laughed, clapping me on the arm and shaking
my hand. Quite a grip.

I explained that I was Tricia's grandson. The Philadelphia Tricia.

He nodded, waved whatever. "Good to see you, Jim," he said.

"Tim," I said.

"Tim. Right."

I couldn't fault him. In the new order, we are saddled with so many
families, so many relations. I'm only in my hundreds and already I have
trouble keeping them straight without clicking through a database. It's
the serial marriages that do it, the different instant sets of in-laws.

"Barb and Deke are tying the knot," I told him. "Barb's a Hotchkiss.
The Seattle Hotchkisses? She's a great-grand after Martha — the actress.
The one who married President Gaylor. The Gaylor who was shot."

Uncle Carmine said, "Ah." He was being polite; I knew he wasn't
even trying to follow.

"Deke's from France," I said.

"Good country," said Uncle Carmine. "I lived there several times."

"No kidding."

"I've lived everywhere several times."

He got a tired look, so I quickly said something interesting: "They're
a young couple. Only the fifteenth time for her, only the eighteenth for
him."

"How sweet," said Uncle Carmine, somewhat interested. Innocence
is always a grabber.

"You were invited a couple of months ago," I reminded him.

"I get a lot of wedding invitations," he said with an absent smile.

"I bet." I do too, actually, and I'm only in my hundreds. "Barb's
planning on having a kid, and it'll be her first."

"Her first, " said Uncle Carmine. "No shit. " He was mildly impressed.

A first time for anything is news, in the new order.

TIME TO GO

But before we could leave, the old guy had to have his pint with the
regulars at the Regulator. Part of his routine. All the staff were from
Ireland (the real Ireland), and all the walls were paneled with authentic
oak. In dim light, the obligatory Rubensish recumbent nude hung over the
obligatory row of dusty single malts.

I was introduced to Ho Hum, who told me he was five thou as if it were
an achievement. Some childishness we never outgrow, I guess. The last
thing he did to keep himself awake was bank robbing. Now he was into art
history. Etruscan.

"Contrast," he said, winking. "That's my method. Contrast."

"If you don't change gears, " observed another regular. Same Old, "you
rust."

"Here's to rust," said Uncle Carmine. "Arf arf." And he chugged a
respectable quantity of sudsy golden ale.

"Myself I don't see the point of crime," said Been There, "but hey,
what works for you works for you." He was doing medical research, cis-
trans molecules.

I could relate to research. Science didn't get stale as quickly as most
things in this vale. My bag at the moment was radio astronomy. A
challenging bag that. The math is killer.

Same Old told me he relied these days on religion, meditation, and
good works. That was his gear change from sexual perversions.

I was saving sexual perversions for the next century. Looking forward,
but then, hey, I was a callow youth.

Funny how we always get on the same subject: survival. I looked at
us in the mirror. Five gentlemen quaffing. Not one gray hair among us.
Physically, if you didn't look into the eyes, we could have been brothers.

The discussion, predictably, turned to those who hadn't made it. Who
had fallen. Death invariably draws, as a subject.

"Charlie was in the movies," said Same Old.

"I love the movies," said Ho Hum.

FANTASY Si SCIENCE FICTION

"Yeah, but there are only so many times you can see The Maltese
Falcon."

"True."

"They were filming in Cura9ao, an operetta with bestiality and
dancing Hungarians, and he just, you know, folded."

"I know."

"You have to know when to fold 'em," said Uncle Carmine.

"I never cared for Charlie," said Been There, half to himself. "The
man was a little too on the surface."

"The surface is good," I said. "It's safe."

They all looked at me, so I stepped back apologetically and shut up.

"Here's to Charlie," said Uncle Carmine, raising his glass, and they
followed suit, with a moment of silence.

"Sheba," said Ho Hum. "She was into armadillos. I loved her."

"We all loved her," said Same Old.

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" said Been There sadly.

"Bare Sheba," said Uncle Carmine. "Arf arf."

They grunted and toasted her too, but then Been There fell. Just like
that. Uncle Carmine moved deftly out of the way of the airborne ale. Long
experience in bars.

"Son of a gvm," remarked Same Old. "He didn't even say bye to his
buddies."

Most people, when they pull the plug on themselves, don't say good-
bye. Maybe they are in too much pain. Maybe it's like taking a leak, like
running for the john when the awful urge comes. You don't have time for
social amenities.

Ho Hum fell too, with a crash, leaving just the three of us. This did not
bode well. I was beginning to doubt that I would get Uncle Carmine to the
wedding. Aunt Bessie wouldn't be pleased. Mother Cora would be disap-
pointed.

I hated being put in this position.

My dad pulled the plug on himself when I was eighty. He had kept
himself going with politics and gardening, but everything palls after long

TIME TO GO

enough. He said farewell in a fashion, called me over with a smile. It was
at a reception for a diplomat dressed in Buddhist orange.

"Jim," he began.

"Tim," I corrected.

He shrugged and slumped in his chair, his handsome head to one side.
A few canapes rolled from his lap to the floor. Smoked fish, as I recall. I
closed his eyes for him, wondering what he had wanted to tell me before
the weariness made him reach inside and stop the old ticker forever.

Philip Henley Carson III, bom 3012 old order or BC (before Carson),
was the genius we have to thank for the self-termination activator
implanted in the medulla oblongata and looped to decision center 8B910
(a five-minute outpatient procedure requiring only a local anesthetic) in
order to bypass the autonomic nervous system cardiopulmonarily in the
event that the existential ennui in an individual reaches such a level of
discomfort that it can morally and legally be termed inhuman suffering.
Carson devised a clever combination of mental taking hold (the "kill
switch" principle) and mental letting go (the "deadman's throttle" prin-
ciple) that reduced the possibility of accidental or reckless-unintentional
self-imp lugging to almost zero (.00813).

As he wrote in his Reflections (which I've read only a few times), life
without aging and without end might not be for everyone. "People come
in all shapes and sizes, "he liked to say. The escape clause that he provided
for a few maladaptors, however, turned out to be what everyone, sooner
or later, made use of. Without exception. The record, one million eight
hundred two thousand and six hundred fifty-five years, was held by Bertie
Gross. Mrs. Gross told the reporters only three years before her finish that
she owed her longevity to a strict regimen of crossword puzzles, TV
sitcoms, and yohimbine.

The failure of mindlifts and partial wipes — they were but patches,
stopgaps — led to the universal adoption of the Carson Intervention.
Carson himself was one of the first to take advantage of this option, which
he did without warning, word, or gesture of farewell. He was 1,908. He left
life halfway through a multiple orgasm ceremony on a mountaintop.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Uncle Carmine's arf arf was getting on my nerves, but I tended to him
with unrelentingly cheerful care. When he yawned, I would step in with
a joke, amazing fact, or suggestion that he consider some lovely new idea
or exciting activity. He would laugh, clap me on the back or head, and say,
"Don't worry, Jimmy Boy, I'll make it."

He told me a story about Mother Cora, who is his stepgranddaughter
once removed (I think). She was getting married but the guy turned out to be
from another solar system. "1 never saw her so mad," said Uncle Carmine.

"What, did he reveal his third eye?" I asked.

"No," said Uncle Carmine, "he was okay. Nice fellow. Problem was
the sand in their bed."

"He liked to swim at the beach."

"No, he was silicon-based."

"No kidding."

"I don't have a problem with that myself. A little sand in the bed
doesn't bother me. But Cora hit the ceiling."

"So you've had wives from other solar systems?"

"Sure. Wives, husbands."

"Silicon-based?"

"Silicon, chlorine, you name it."

"Chlorine?"

"The bed smells like a swimming pool. I'd wear goggles to avoid eye
irritation."

"So what did Mother Cora do?"

"She broke it off. Which was a good thing, actually, because the guy
was in debt up to his gills. Didn't pay his taxes either."

"He had gills?"

"Just a figure of speech."

"Did you ever have a wife with gills?"

"Sure. I've had all kinds. My advice, when you get married, Jimmy
Boy, ask to see a financial statement first. Audited and notarized. I'm
telling you, it saves a lot of grief."

I nodded. Truth was, I had been stung that way already. The undis-
closed lien on Vanessa's wherry. The first Vanessa, with the hair.

TIME TO GO

The wedding went smoothly, no problems. Aunt Bessie thanked me
twice for fulfilling my mission successfully, Tricia came over and kissed
me on the forehead. Barb and Deke made a big deal about the "honor" and
had a bunch of pictures taken with Uncle Carmine, and Mother Cora and
Uncle Carmine enjoyed a nice little heart to heart off in a comer on the
veranda under the leaves of the big Cambodian poplar. About old times,
I suppose. If anybody dropped dead now, it wouldn't be my fault. I sighed
with relief, rattled the ice in my fragrant highball, and suddenly felt, in an
awful wave, weary. Bone weary.

“My warranty stated I could take it with me.

In general, F&SF readers are probably familiar vnth Flann O'Brien's The Third
Pohceman and thus understand the value of a good footnote. Here we bring you
a new tale of the Silurian age, one in a rather academic vein. Steven Utley reports
that while the long-anticipated book of Silurian Tales is not yet in the works, a
story collection entitled The Beasts of Love is in the pipeline and is expected to
emerge next year.

A Paleozoic
Palimpsest

By Steven Utley

S AFICIONADOS OF DOCU-

mentaries and attentive readers of Sun-
day supplements know, the Paleozoic
expedition's main camp sits upon the
verge of an estuarine marsh bracketed by barren headlands. Within the
labyrinthine jumble of rocky debris along the base of the nearer ridge, a
singular limestone slab stands as though balanced upon its edge in an area
like a miniature arena. Unlike the camp's other points of interest, it is
omitted from the official catalogue. Yet significant numbers of visitors to
the Paleozoic eagerly negotiate the enclosing maze for the sake of inspect-
ing it. Some few of these daring souls become lost, of course, and require
extrication, occasionally by air (the camp maintains a helicopter for this
purpose), while others wander through the maze and emerge without
glimpsing that which they sought. (From time to time, guideposts and
monitoring devices have been installed, but someone always removes or
disables them. Attempts to identify and apprehend this vandal have
failed. ) Those who successfully penetrate the maze find themselves before
an extrusion of vibrant red and orange, fluorescent yellow, metallic blue,

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

shiny green: riotous, startling, illicit color — in marked contrast to the
materially identical limestone masses ranged about it (indeed, to the drab
Paleozoic world in general). The finely grained stone typical of the region
provides a suitable, albeit slightly undulating, surface for a variety of more
or less indelible markers, including paint sticks, grease pencils, jet pens,
charcoal, and chalk, as well as pocketknives and other implements —
according to one visitor, "You can scratch it with a paper clip, it's so soft. " ‘
Over the years, virtually the entire surface of the slab has been covered
with markings, until "the rock is embedded in graffiti like the pit in a
peach. Much of the older graffiti has itself been deliberately obliterated,
scrubbed off to make way for new graffiti or simply buried beneath fresh
layers. Weathering and fading have also effaced many markings, more-
over, at unequal rates, depending upon the graffiti's placement and the
means used to inscribe it. In consequence, the beginnings of many
inscriptions unconformably abut the middles of others and the endings
of still others. "There can't be five unaltered independent clauses in
the lot."’ A geologist visiting the rock calls it "a perfect metaphor for
geology. The old is obscured by the new, the new is partly erased, partly
exposing the old."" No less proprietarily, an historian likens it to
palimpsests, the parchments erased and reused by ancient and medieval
scholars.

The rock is porous enough to retain traces of erased or obscured
graffiti, which become observable under ultraviolet light; images
obtained in this manner become legible with a minimum of elec-
tronic enhancement. This process is, of course, beyond the means
and intent of the casual visitor, who therefore must be content with
superficial inspection.®

The graffiti consist of the usual things which people throughout
history have privately inscribed in public places: names, initials, dates,
jokes, bon mots, cartoons, declarations of love enclosed in hearts, invita-
tions to engage in a variety of improbable sexual acts, mostly unsought

' Poz (pseud.), The Positronic Express (India Ink).

^ Ibid.

’ Ibid.

" V. Thorp, A Life Among the Rocks (Endocarp).

® B. King, Earth to Earth (University of Tennessee).

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

and mostly unsound advice, quotations, insults, non sequiturs, trivia,
esoterica, outright arcana, and verse in various forms and of debatable
merit. "The neighbor's sea scorpions are in the rosebushes again," begins
one poem. "There was a young lady from Dallas," begins another. Perhaps
inevitably, the enormous body of verse has inspired an attendant body of
literary criticism, itself ranging in form and quality from the brief and
facile "If it doesn't rhyme/don't waste my time" to a brambly critique of
the works of seventeenth-century English poets John Donne, Richard
Crashaw, George Herbert, and Abraham Cowley.* *

An entire face of the slab is given over to a mass of graffiti consolidated
under a heading painstakingly engraved by an unknown daredevil across
the upper edge:

Quantum Metaphysics 101

A twenty-first-century humorist who had undertaken the "obligatory
pilgrimage"^ to the rock, noted in his own, farcical expedition memoir
that

the chief topic of the forum, if it may be said to possess such, was the
interface of science and art or science and faith or science and
something else. What you made of it depended on what you thought
you knew about what other people had thought they knew and still
other people had thought of what those first people thought. It was
mathematics and metaphysics, morphology in both the biological
and linguistic meanings of the word, metopes and modem art,
Mozart and mo-pop, Mohammed and his mountain, Mann and his
mountain, the "many- worlds" hypothesis (with monoversalists,
multiversalists, and mimetoversalists biting at one another like
cats, dogs, and fairly undiscriminating fleas ), and ever so much more,
all mashed into mush. If you looked away for an instant, if you so
much as blinked, you lost your place and never could find it again.*

* K, Colt, ed., Paleozolnk (Necessary Impurity). Perhaps no less inevitably, several collections
of this verse have been published, including PaleoPens, PaleoPoets, and the aforesaid
Paleozolnk, all edited by Colt, as well as a selection of the criticism, PaleoPoisonPens, edited
by D. Stepp and also published under the aegis of Necessary Impurity.

^ L. D. Yerly, My Silutian Sleep-Over (Orcas Island Publishing), the basis of the interminably
running Paleozoic Pajama Party!

* Ibid.

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

He discovers that disagreement over basic terms has prompted a
graffitist to append "Essential and Other Pertinent Definitions,"
in the interest of promoting agreement on what we are talking about.
Let us all concur that quantum theory "holds that energy is not
absorbed or radiated continuously but discontinuously, in definite
units called quanta," while metaphysics, as used hereinafter, is
intended to mean "the branch of philosophy that deals with first
principles and seeks to explicate the nature of being or reality [here
the viewer is advised by footnote to see ontology, further down the
rock] and of the origin and structure of the world [see cosmology] and
is closely associated with a theory of knowledge" [see epistemol-
ogy]-’

Although, remarkably (indeed, almost uniquely), the text enclosed
within its rectangular border remains inviolate (save for the insertion of
several competing systems of footnote symbols), vehement dispute over
the offered definitions provokes extensive annotation.

I was inspired to admiration of the rock by my discovery upon it
of an example of a literary form that surely dates back to Sumer and
for all scientists can tell us even to the Paleolithic. Anyone who has
ever entered a public restroom will recognize it. This example
commenced, "S.Y.S. loves E. remipes" (S.Y.S. presumably being a
paleontologist, E. remipes being an evidently popular species of sea
scorpion), and proceeded as follows:

Better E. remipes than E. coli.

You know where you can put your E. coli!

Hey, watch it — my dog's a border coli!

It's pronounced kohl-i, not cah-lee.

Drink Coca-Coli.

I ALSO HAVE A PET VEGETABLE FROM THE COLI FAMILY. CaN YOU GUESS
WHAT IT IS?

Broccoli.

Coliflowerl

May Coli smite you all, jaw and thighbone, ass and elbow.

If you ask me this whole discussion is pretty melancholi.

’ Ibid.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

And did we ask you?

Well! I decided that if this was indicative of the material still
awaiting my perusal, I could have it read in twenty minutes or half
an hour at most. I confidently launched a frontal assault on that
bastion of bewilderment titled "Quantum MetesSisychosis" [sic]
and promptly had to skirt an impenetrable line of fortifications
comprising quotations from works of metaphysics (some of them in
the original German, and at least a few of the shorter ones lettered in
Gothic script, rendering them all the more impervious to under-
standing) only to find myself under a barrage of denigrations of
abstract reasoning and the small-arms fire of dissertations on the
relative incidences of "solitary vice" and general depravity among
philosophers, paleontologists, and physicists. I came to a dead stop
in a concertina-wire-like tangle of mathematical formulae, through
which I could glimpse a patch of text on the far side, though I could
make out only the terms "atemporality" and "aspatiality," the lines.
Here I sit, broken-hearted.

Tried to quit
But can't get started,

and the desperate scrawl, "Help! I'm having a simultaneity break-
down!" Without understanding for an instant what that person was
talking about, I believe 1 know exactly how he or she must have felt.
Permitted, or compelled, to read only more or less at random, other
visitors also mention the impossibility of syncretism, one going so far as
to describe the graffiti as quaquaversal, a term in geology meaning
"directed from a common center toward all points of the compass or
turning and dipping in all directions."" Another observes that "these
ostensibly serious exchanges inevitably degenerate into puerile non-
sense," and reproduces as an example the following exchange:

Sirrah, you are a sorry sack of solipsism and a sciolistic one at
that.

I micturate mightily on your meandering, monotonous, mean-
ingless, and maximally moronic musings on mathematics.

Ibid.

** Thorp.

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

Oh yeah?!

Yeah! Wanna make something of it!

Fight! FIGHT! ooops, I mean - sciamachy! sciamachy!

"To which, " he says, "I confess I was sorely tempted to add Quantum
sufficit! 'Enough already!'"'^ His collaborator springs to the defense:

The graffiti are not puerile. They are at least sophomoric, and I
am coming around to the view that they do serve a useful function
— provide the expedition's anarchists and jokers with an outlet for
anti-social and anti-authoritarian sentiment, and so keep them from
bloodily overthrowing local Officialdom. Therefore, I can only say to
my esteemed colleague, whose pomposity, humorlessness, and prig-
gishness fit him ideally for membership in Officialdom, Fac ut vivas!
"Get a life!" >3

The graffiti have not lacked for either champions or detractors among
expedition members, and, perhaps contrary to expectation, opinion is not
divided strictly along the demarcation between its civilian and military
members. A Navy officer describes a rather touching incident which,
unknown to him at the time, was to have an unpleasant denouement:

At midday, prickly heat engulfed the camp like amber, and
people turned from the work or recreation that had occupied them
throughout the morning and became, according to their natures,
passive, lethargic, dormant, or perfectly inert. I was a newcomer,
however, and this was my first time ashore, and I wanted to see
everything. I put a pith helmet on my head, salt tablets in my pocket,
and a canteen on my belt, and struck out into blinding sunlight and
palpable humidity to seek such adventure as the Silurian age could
provide. 1 did not feel like climbing the ridge in that heat, however.

I had overheard someone on the ship say that there was "interesting
stuff" to see among the rocks strewn along its base, so I decided to
investigate.

. . .The going was tricky, but it was shady in there, and cool. ... As
I penetrated deeper, however, the air grew still; if I had been
perspiring freely before, now I was awash inside my slimy clothes.

'^S. Nichols and O. Peabody, Paleo Boys at Large (Carlo).
'fibid.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Then I stepped through a cleft and came unexpectedly upon a woman
standing beside a graffiti-plastered slab of rock. She faced me but
didn't see me because at that moment she had the front of her shirt
pulled up so she could wipe sweat from her face, thereby affording me
an excellent view of her bare bosom. I almost dislocated a number of
joints trying to get myself turned around within the cleft's confines.

I stuck fast for the moment and could only shut my eyes and
stammer an apology.

"It's okay," I heard her say, "you can look now. I'm decent."

I risked a look and saw her regarding me with an expression of
annoyance. I felt like one big hot blush, and that seemed to amuse
her, for she abruptly cocked her hip and planted a fist on it, gave me
an exaggerated wink, and said, "Hell-o, sailor!"

Then she suddenly blushed, and I realized after a moment that
she had just then recognized my insignia. "Whoops," she said,
"sorry, I didn't realize," and now I finally found my voice and told her
no, I was sorry, I hadn't realized, and we went on like that for perhaps
half a minute. She laughed nervously and said, "Can we please just
start over? Pretend we just this instant laid eyes on each other for the
first time? That I never disconcerted you by blatantly calling atten-
tion to my womanly charms?"

"I'm not disconcerted by womanly charms," I said, and imme-
diately thought. That must be the most inane sentence to come out
of my mouth in my adult life. I tried to recoup by adding, "You'd be
surprised by what a Navy chaplain hears."

She laughed again. "Probably not as much as you'd be surprised
by what an old gal knows.

Apparently in consequence of this flustered beginning, the two
dispense with further attempts at introduction.

I asked about the graffiti, and after a moment's hesitation, she
led me on a brisk circuit of the slab. "Every other rock in Paleozoic
time," she said, "is regarded as the scientific equivalent of a holy
relic, untouchable by the uninitiated. But this one's been singled out

*'* G. Madiel, Infinite Worlds, Eternal God: A Navy Chaplain's Exploits Elsewhere (U.S. Naval
Academy).

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

for a different use — a profane use, if you will, but vital nevertheless.
Here's where expedition members come to satisfy the hardwired
human need to make marks on things." Much of what I saw was the
usual, by turns blasphemous, merely outrageous, or simply cretin-
ous, but here and there was something clever, such as the protracted
dialog between Maxwell's demon and Schrodinger's cat ("MD; You
okay in there? SC: You go to hell!"’^). I hadn't seen the word
"consubstantial" in a graffito since divinity school. I would have
stayed longer, but I became increasingly aware that she meant only
to satisfy my curiosity and send me on my way as quickly as possible,
so I thanked her and returned through the maze to camp.*®

The following morning, the commander of the expedition's Navy
contingent ordered a work party to the rock. That much is indisputable;
accounts of what precipitated the order, what the order was, and what
came of it do not simply vary but diverge to the point of flatly contradict-
ing one another. The chaplain ever after denied that he had reported the
existence of the graffiti ("clearly it was an open secret"**'), admitting only
that he had mentioned it in passing to fellow officers. He also claimed that
Dr. Maven had somehow never got around to explaining that she was
studying the graffiti ( "She just said she'd heen taking pictures of it"**), and
that he had had no intention of making trouble for her or anyone else. A
historian who accepts this, or at least does not reject it, writes:

The definition of vandalism includes graffiti, so the commander
was simply enforcing regulations — or (already our path forks!)
perhaps he was acting out of personal pique, having taken umbrage
at either a vicious caricature of himself rumored to adorn the rock,
or ribald verse directed at a civilian expedition member with whom
he was known to be, or perhaps only rumored to have been, roman-
tically involved, at some time, on some plane of being. Or not.*’

*® J. Friel, however, in his Pastimes and Past Tenses (Matthewave|, reports the demon's half
of the dialog as, " Whatcha doing in the box, kitty ? " while Kalen Gilligan, in Meanwhile, Back
in the Past (DeForgeo), gives the cat's reply as, "Wouldn't you like to know! " and Yerly, as,
"That's for me to know and you to find out!"

*® Madiel.

Ibid.

** Record of Proceedings. See footnote below.

King.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

In one instance, the offensive verse is given as
I have the hots for Professor Heather,

Whom I'd like to dress in leather
And tickle, with a peacock feather.

In a "sub-instance" of this development, the Navy commander
denounces the "despicable doggerel" and acts the part of a protective
lover; in a second sub-instance, he denies any romantic attachment with
the Professor Heather in question but feels it incumbent upon himself to
act on her behalf. But (ah ha!) the commander may just as well have been
acting on the pique of one of his junior officers, who took umbrage at
ribaldry directed at herself;

The jay-gee is a sonsy wench;

I'd lay her on a bunk or bench.

If she liked. I'd even spank her.

But I'm an enlisted wanker.

The work party hasn't even received its assignment, already we
have half a dozen different versions of things, and we're still well shy
of the commander's ultimately being dissuaded from having the rock
(A) cleaned off, (B) pulverized, or (C) simply declared off limits to (1)
all expedition personnel or (2) Navy persormel only. To complicate
matters further, no one is really sure just how he was dissuaded and
by whom.^

In the event, one person, at least, was sure that she knew how and by
whom — or, more precisely, if the imperfections of the Record of
Proceedings^* can be said to allow for precision, that she could certainly

Ibid.

^* Unfortunately, the medium used for the Record of Proceedings (and much else of expedition
members' quotidian experience) was the unstable JGoldmanlO™, eventually replaced by
MemoryMat™. "Worse," King notes, "Madeleine™, Mnemosyne™, and similar 'enhancers’
had not then lived down their association with the infamous Psychepick™ and regained the
confidence of historians. Thus, any account of events that occurred (perhaps it is safer to write
'may have occurred') in the expedition's first decades must necessarily be an assemblage of bits
gleaned from a single unreliable artificial source and even less reliable, and too often self-
serving, human remembrance. Contradictions accrete to this day, long after most of the
principals have passed on. . . . The seeker of truth must exercise due caution when turning to
the recollections of former expedition members, many of them demonstrably untrustworthy
(especially those who have passed on! ). Glaring discrepancies exasperate even the most dedicated
researchers and tempt them to give credence to the theories of a twenty-first-century physicist

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

find out. (It is difficult to explain this record's having been overlooked by
King, whose reputation for meticulous research must now be reconsid-
ered.) According to the Proceedings, the work party was met at the site and
deflected from its assignment by a female civilian named Maven who
claimed the graffiti as the subject of her sociological research. By now, no
one should be surprised to learn that conflicting accounts ensue. The
petty officer in charge of the work party later admitted in proceedings that
he had skeptically demanded to know what a sociologist might be doing
in Paleozoic time, and claimed that the civilian had lost her temper and
sharply informed him that she had work to do, that the interview was
concluded, and that the Navy should mind "its own goddamn business,
whatever the hell that might be."“ She maintained in proceedings that
while she may have indeed been curt with the petty officer,^ she had
answered his "impertinent" question comprehensively and concisely:
"I'm doing what sociologists do anywhere there are humans living
together in social groups."^

In her published memoir of the expedition, however, she amplified
this answer to make it more comprehensive, albeit less concise, presum-
ably in the way of dramatizing exposition to make it more palatable to a

whose now-fading fame rested upon his intimate connection with The Spacetime Anomaly
-- as he preferred to call it in his alleged autobiography, a work that bears so little resemblance
to contemporary accounts of his career that it might almost have been written (possibly
ghostwritten) in one of the alternate universes which he so promiscuously postulated."

Proceedings. "If she did say it, " former Navy commander B. Greene writes in his Eulogy for
an Expedition (U.S. Naval Academy), "it was gratuitous and unfair. All Navy personnel
understood that scientific research was the expedition's raison d'etre, that they were there
purely in a support capacity. For their part, all civilians were supposed to understand that we
were there to make their jobs easier." Reklen, in his Rock of Eternity (GA GL), expressed "no
doubt that she was bipolar." This was unlikely, though not as unlikely as M. Raap makes out
in The Soul of the Silurian (Darcy). "Bipolar people are generally diagnosed when they are still
fairly young, and this was a woman in her late forties. Even if she had, somehow, not been
previously diagnosed, she could not possibly have got past screening. You don't just show up
at the jump station and say, 'Hello there, I'm a scientist, please send me to the Silurian
Period.'" That she could not "possibly" have got past screening is arguable, given certain other
individuals who did get past it. Raap suggests that she suffered an episode of something like
stress-induced psychosis after she passed through the anomaly and joined the expedition.

^ "I was naturally alarmed by the sudden and unexpected arrival of sailors equipped with
everything they needed, scrubbers, solvents, and orders, to wreck my project." Proceedings.

S. Kate Maven, The Community of the Rock: My Silurian Sojourn (Carlo).

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

popular audience whose attention was not altogether biddable. “ Now she
goes on at length:

"I'm doing what sociologists do anywhere there is human
society, people living together in groups. The grist for my particular
mill is here, now, where we have a relative handful of people isolated
from the rest of their species — isolated by four hundred million
years, according to one theory, isolated in a whole other universe,
according to another...."

When the petty officer shrugs this off (as well he might) and demands
to know why his superior officer did not know the site was under her
protection, she informs him, "I try to keep a low profile here," explaining,
" . . .Back home, I can do oral-history interviews of former expedition
members by the dozen and in broad daylight, but here I'm trying to
minimize my presence because I don't want to make people self-
conscious about what they write on the rock. I come here during the
heat of the day or a little after sunrise or a little before sundown, take
rubbings, photographs, do a complete three-sixty whenever it seems
warranted, then clear out."“

Whatever really passed between protagonist and antagonist (her
memoir leaves no room for doubt as to who is who), the petty officer
reported the incident to his superiors. A routine name check next failed
to find Dr. Maven, which meant that her credentials could not be
examined^^. There was, of course, no question of her being in Paleozoic
time under false pretenses. A jump-station technician volunteered the
information that she had come through unaccompanied and carrying only

^^Maven's Community, as Reklen notes in his vindictive Rock of Eternity, is an "aggressively
self-dramatizing" work, though he lets his hatred of its author blind him to the fact that it is
by no means the worst of its kind. That dubious distinction surely belongs to K. Barnet's
Silurian Tales (Putnam Holt Rinehart Winston Harcourt Brace and Jovanovich or Their Heirs
and Assigns], which concentrates (or tries to, through a fog of alcoholic self-pity) on sexual
escapades and drinking bouts. His decline even from this abysmal level can be traced through
the sequels he produced, Devonian Dreams, Carboniferous Capers, and Jurassic Trailer Park
Sluts (also from Putnam et al).

In a letter found among the Reklen papers and dated years after former Petty Officer Eustt's
retirement from the Navy, he insists that "all the bitch said to me was 'Shove off, sailor!"'

It had not yet been realized that, despite usual safeguards, the humid, septic Paleozoic
environment was inimical to (Goldman 1 0™. (" JG 1 0 had the attention span of a mayfly and the
shelf life of a banana." Poz.)

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

a backpack. She had signed the register for use of the camp's communal
facilities, but so little had been seen of her since then that no one could
quite recall her or had a clear notion of what she might by doing in their
midst. By the time her personal data were recovered, she and Reklen, the
civilian liaison, had already fought the first skirmish in what was to
unfold as a lifelong exchange of libel and slander, culminating in a lawsuit
and a suicide. It began when he ("peremptorily"^®) summoned her to
account for herself, and received the reply that she was busy and he should
go fuck himself. This, probably as much and possibly more than anything
else, precipitated the formal inquiry to which in later years she referred as
both a court-martial and a provost court. The terms are neither quite
interchangeable in military usage nor applicable to

what was really a most informal sort of formal inquiry — stressing
"formal" as the operative word, as in "strictly for form's sake." A
half-dozen of us, evenly divided between Navy and civilians, sat in
a sweltering Quonset hut and asked her and the p.o. a few questions.

I had no beef with her, unlike one of the civilians who instigated the
whole thing" [emphasis added].

In the extant record, on being asked how long she thought the alleged
vandalism had been going on, she answers, "Almost from the first!" and
names several well-known scientists, previously in Paleozoic time, whose
initials she claims to have found carved or written on the rock. "Most of
the inscriptions are anonymous or at least pseudonymous — signed things
like 'Old Dude' and 'Spangles' and so forth. Beyond doubt Navy personnel
have contributed their share, just more discreetly than the civilians . " This
elicits expressions of doubt and denial from the Navy officers, though
apparently not from the petty officer or other ratings who are or may be
present (the record is unclear), and a stern reminder from the civilian
liaison that, "As visitors to this pristine primeval world, we should not go
around defiling it, trashing it, or marking it up."

"The absence of trash," she replies, "and the presence of art tell me
that people respect the place very much."®°

Maven.

Greene. Undoubtedly he refers to Reklen.

''She was as cool as Joan of Arc answering her inquisitors at Rouen." Ibid. In Proceedings,
Reklen opines that she has "transposed the words art and trash."

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

This prompts a rejoinder from the civilian liaison, that "to dignify
graffiti by subjecting it to allegedly scientific scrutiny misrepresents
scribblings and doodlings whose predominant characteristics are inanity,
irreverence, and obscenity. Have human beings really come all this way,
across hundreds of millions of years, just to snigger over smut?"®*

A gap in the record occurs at this juncture. When the record resumes,
visual exhibits have been brought forward, consisting of photographs of
the limestone slab, taken from all sides at regular intervals. Careful
examination of sequences of images reveals not only material of a
pornographic or otherwise questionable nature, but also that all such
graphic depictions of coitus and drawings of human genitalia, whether
crudely or expertly executed, are soon effaced or, more frequently, revised
into fabulous Paleozoic fauna or flora, e.g.,"Trilobite me" and"Cocksonia."
Scatological references and the like tend ("puckishly"®^) to mutate into
faux taxonomical terms. Even the English language's most familiar
expression of insolent ill regard proves vulnerable to this sort of revision.
The latter of a particular pair of "before and after" images reveals a cartoon
of a beStetsoned gun-toting sea scorpion appended to an inscription
amended to read "Fuckeurypterid andthehorseurydon"; another inscrip-
tion has attracted the rejoinder, "You idiot, it's F-U-C-U-S," which segues
directly into a brief technical description of an actual seaweed genus of
that name.

The Navy commander then asks, "Does it not seem from this that
even some of the graffitists are offended by pornographic material? That
someone has appointed themselves fsicj censor?" and receives the an-
swer, "Emendation isn't restricted to the pornography. Anything you
inscribe on the rock is fair game for the next person who comes along. " She
declares in conclusion that "the human need for self-expression is part of
our baggage wherever we go — in this case, whenever — and it always finds
an outlet. Voilh. The rock, the outlet." The Navy commander, by now
patently weary of the whole matter, says, "So be it," and summarily
adjourns the proceedings over the civilian liaison's protests.®®

Proceedings.
^^Maven, Community.
^ Proceedings.

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

In Maven's memoir, her succinct summation swells into a full-blown
lecture:

" . . -The rock is vital — indispensable — to the expedition's collective
mental health in another way, too. It's a safety valve. It's not merely
the major means, it's virtually the only means of genuine communi-
cation in your small, isolated, diverse, and segregated community.’"'
When not actually required to interact — as now, for example —
civilians and military personnel pretty much keep to themselves.
When they do interact, they frequently confound one another. As
now. Moreover, civilians and Navy personnel not only keep to
themselves but to their hierarchical subgroups as well. These are
defined by specialization or rank. Officers do not fraternize with
ratings, of course. But, if they can help it, neither do field geologists
and so-called black-box geologists fraternize. The astronomers and
physicists look down — there is no other term to describe their
attitude — look down on the geologists, who for their part emphati-
cally do not look up to the astronomers and physicists. And everyone
asks, as snidely as possible, what the hell a sociologist is doing
here."’*

This final sentence was excised prior to the memoir's publication and
appears only in the posthumously discovered version. But at last we seem
to have arrived at the crux of the matter! Anger and paranoia roil just
beneath the surface of the published version; they break through repeat-
edly in the original:

The prospect of going in alone didn't daunt me. I liked working
alone; the only times I ever engaged graduate students or other
assistants was when there was a lot of pure donkey- work to be done.’*

I would have the use of communal facilities. I knew I would do
excellent and valuable work if I could just scrape together the price
of a damn time-machine ticket! In writing this memoir, I find I still

’* "The reason she worked alone was because nobody could stand to work with her. She had no
friends in her department and an unsavory reputation in her field." Reklen, Rock of Eternity.

Note the use of the adjective "your," rather than "our." Maven pointedly ignores the
existence of the official expedition newsource, inevitably christened The Paleozoic Times.
’* Maven, A Time Traveler's Tale of a Tempestuous, Truncated Trip ("7*," original, unpub-
lished version of The Community of the Rock], item # SRCA1941 in DCMB collection.

FANTASY &. SCIENCE FICTION

am not quite capable of relating, in anything like an even-tempered
(let alone even-handed) fashion, what I put up with, what I went
through, to gain access to that strange other world. My grant requests
elicited actual guffaws in certain quarters: "Sociology in the Sil-
urian, bwah-hah!" "The Silurian Period is no place for the soft
sciences, hee-yuk!" All these years later, those jackass brays of
hilarity echo in my head.^^

Her memoir's coda is laced with bitterness but concludes on what
must be described as a strangely subdued note:

The inquiry wrecked my project as completely as though I had
just let the swabbies at the rock in the first place. I'd come to record
and study and analyze, as unobtrusively as possible, remaining aloof
from the mystagogic community of the rock while also respecting its
unwritten, unspoken, yet unmistakable rules. How these had been
formulated and disseminated, I could have discovered only by break-
ing the one against spying. I had to accept that the protocols existed.
You did not litter the space enclosing the rock with empty beer cans,
broken glass, cigarette butts, and used condoms. You could disagree
and even revise or erase someone else's work, but you could not
violate anyone's anonymity or cause it to be violated; you couldn't
spy on people.

And it all went right down the toilet the instant the rock became
a tourist attraction and I became a celebrity. After that, I couldn't go
into the labyrinth and come out again without tripping over half a
dozen idiots who wanted to gab and gawk and have their pictures
taken at the rock. Within the week, I packed up and shipped out,
leaving work undone, puzzles unsolved, mysteries unfathomed,
secrets unlearned. I also left my own inscription on the rock.

... I am in no way ashamed of what I did manage to accomplish,
which was the best work I could do under the circumstances; I only
wish I had been permitted to carry through to the end. I told myself
that when I got home, perhaps I would look around for another
isolated — but less isolated — social group, perhaps at a research
station in Antarctica, perhaps on a mission to Mars.^*

Maven, T*.

38 J

A PALEOZOIC PALIMPSEST

She does not reveal what she inscrihed, or even how she inscrihed it,
and it probably did not survive long, given the plastic nature of graffiti.
This leaves the door opened wide for speculation. Her avowed enemy
wastes few words: "Knowing her, it was probably 'Up yours!'"^*’ One
author^ suggests, solely on the strength of its being written in pencil on
the last page of her field notebook, a quotation from a work of fiction
entitled "Lik," by Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977): "Loneliness as a situ-
ation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness." A
more recent biography*' makes a somewhat stronger case for an inscrip-
tion visible in what seems to be her final image of the rock, a line which
occurs again in Community of the Rock: "Sometimes what people don't
say tells us more than what they do say." But as with so much else, we
probably will never know.

Reklen.

*°Colt, Paleozolnk.

Raap.

rue rkue origin of aye paihtin&s.

Our last stozy took us back into prehistory, and now we proceed to the end of the
world. Perhaps it’s not so far away....

Our guide on this trip to the end, Dale Bailey, recently published his second
novel. House of Bones. Last year his first story collection was also published, and
he reports that Sleeping Policemen, a crime novel written in collaboration with
lack Slay, fr., is due out in 2006.. .assuming the world doesn’t end by then.

The End of the World
as We Know It

By Dale Bailey

ETWEEN 1347 AND 1450

A.D., bubonic plague overran Europe,
killing some 75 million people. The
plague, dubbed the Black Death be-
cause of the black pustules that erupted on the skin of the afflicted, was
caused by a bacterium now known as Yersinia pestis. The Europeans of
the day, lacking access to microscopes or knowledge of disease vectors,
attributed their misfortune to an angry God. Flagellants roamed the land,
hoping to appease His wrath. "They died by the hundreds, both day and
night," Agnolo di Tura tells us. "I buried my five children with my own
hands... so many died that all believed it was the end of the world."

Today, the population of Europe is about 729 million.

Evenings, Wyndham likes to sit on the porch, drinking. He likes gin,
but he'll drink anything. He's not particular. Lately, he's been watching
it get dark — really watching it, I mean, not just sitting there — and so far
he's concluded that the clichd is wrong. Night doesn't fall. It's more
complex than that.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

Not that he's entirely confident in the accuracy of his observations.

It's high summer just now, and Wyndham often begins drinking at
two or three, so by the time the Sun sets, around nine, he's usually pretty
drunk. Still, it seems to him that, if anything, night rises, gathering first
in inky pools under the trees, as if it has leached up from underground
reservoirs, and then spreading, out toward the borders of the yard and up
toward the yet-lighted sky. It's only toward the end that anything falls —
the blackness of deep space, he supposes, unscrolling from high above the
Earth. The two planes of darkness meet somewhere in the middle, and
that's night for you.

That's his current theory, anyway.

It isn't his porch, incidentally, but then it isn't his gin either — except
in the sense that, in so far as Wyndham can tell anyway, everything now
belongs to him.

End-of-the- world stories usually come in one of two varieties.

In the first, the world ends with a natural disaster, either unprec-
edented or on an unprecedented scale. Floods lead all other contenders —
God himself, we're told, is fond of that one — though plagues have their
advocates. A renewed ice age is also popular. Ditto drought.

In the second variety, irresponsible human beings bring it on them-
selves. Mad scientists and corrupt bureaucrats, usually. An exchange of
ICBMs is the typical route, although the scenario has dated in the present
geo-political environment.

Feel free to mix and match;

Genetically engineered flu virus, anyone? Melting polar ice caps?

On the day the world ended, Wyndham didn't even realize it was the
end of the world — not right away, anyway. For him, at that point in his
life, pretty much every day seemed like the end of the world. This was not
a consequence of a chemical imbalance, either. It was a consequence of
working for UPS, where, on the day the world ended, Wyndham had been
employed for sixteen years, first as a loader, then in sorting, and finally in
the coveted position of driver, the brown uniform and everything. By this
time the company had gone public and he also owned some shares. The
money was good — very good, in fact. Not only that, he liked his job.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Still, the beginning of every goddamn day started off feeling like a
cataclysm. You try getting up at 4:00 a.m. every morning and see how you
feel.

This was his routine:

At 4:00 A.M., the alarm went off — an old-fashioned alarm, he wound
it up every night. (He couldn't tolerate the radio before he drank his
coffee.) He always turned it off right away, not wanting to wake his wife.
He showered in the spare bathroom (again, not wanting to wake his wife;
her name was Ann), poured coffee into his thermos, and ate something he
probably shouldn't — a bagel, a Pop Tart — while he stood over the sink.
By then, it would be 4:20, 4:25 if he was running late.

Then he would do something paradoxical: He would go back to his
bedroom and wake up the wife he'd spent the last twenty minutes trying
not to disturb.

"Have a good day," Wyndham always said.

His wife always did the same thing, too. She would screw her face into
her pillow and smile. "Ummm," she would say, and it was usually such
a cozy, loving, early-morning cuddling kind of "ummm" that it almost
made getting up at four in the goddamn morning worth it.

Wyndham heard about the World Trade Center — not the end of the
world, though to Wyndham it sure as hell felt that way — from one of his
customers.

The customer — her name was Monica — was one of Wyndham's
regulars: a Home Shopping Network fiend, this woman. She was big, too.
The kind of woman of whom people say "She has a nice personality" or
"She has such a pretty face." She did have a nice personality, too — at least
Wyndham thought she did. So he was concerned when she opened the door
in tears.

"What's wrong?" he said.

Monica shook her head, at a loss for words. She waved him inside.
Wyndham, in violation of about fifty UPS regulations, stepped in after her.
The house smelled of sausage and floral air freshener. There was Home
Shopping Network shit everywhere. I mean, everywhere.

Wyndham hardly noticed.

His gaze was fixed on the television. It was showing an airliner flying

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

into the World Trade Center. He stood there and watched it from three or
four different angles before he noticed the Home Shopping Network logo
in the lower right-hand comer of the screen.

That was when he concluded that it must be the end of the world. He
couldn't imagine the Home Shopping Network preempting regularly
scheduled programming for anything less.

The Muslim extremists who flew airplanes into the World Trade
Center, into the Pentagon, and into the unyielding earth of an otherwise
unremarkable field in Pennsylvania, were secure, we are told, in the
knowledge of their imminent translation into paradise.

There were nineteen of them.

Every one of them had a name.

W YNDHAM^S WIFE was something of a reader.

She liked to read in bed. Before she went to sleep she
always marked her spot using a bookmark Wyndham
had given her for her birthday one year: It was a
cardboard bookmark with a yam ribbon at the top, and a picture of a
rainbow arching high over white-capped mountains. Smile, the bookmark
said. God loves you.

Wyndham wasn't much of a reader, but if he'd picked up his wife's
book the day the world ended he would have found the first few pages
interesting. In the opening chapter, God raptures all tme Christians to
Heaven. This includes tme Christians who are driving cars and trains and
airplanes, resulting in uncounted lost lives as well as significant damages
to personal property. If Wyndham had read the book, he'd have thought
of a bumper sticker he sometimes saw from high in his UPS tmck.
Warning, the bumper sticker read. In case of Rapture, this car will be
unmanned. Whenever he saw that bumper sticker, Wyndham imagined
cars crashing, planes falling from the sky, patients abandoned on the
operating table — pretty much the scenario of his wife's book, in fact.

Wyndham went to church every Sunday, but he couldn't help won-
dering what would happen to the untold millions of people who weren’t
tme Christians — whether by choice or by the geographical fluke of
having been bom in some place like Indonesia. What if they were crossing

FANTASY A SCIENCE FICTION

the street in front of one of those cars, he wondered, or watering lawns
those planes would soon plow into?

But I was saying:

On the day the world ended Wyndham didn't understand right away
what had happened. His alarm clock went off the way it always did and he
went through his normal routine. Shower in the spare bath, coffee in the
thermos, breakfast over the sink (a chocolate donut, this time, and gone
a little stale). Then he went back to the bedroom to say good-bye to his
wife.

"Have a good day," he said, as he always said, and, leaning over, he
shook her a little: not enough to really wake her, just enough to get her
stirring. In sixteen years of performing this ritual, minus federal holidays
and two weeks of paid vacation in the summer, Wyndham had pretty
much mastered it. He could cause her to stir without quite waking her up
just about every time.

So to say he was surprised when his wife didn't screw her face into her
pillow and smile is something of an understatement. He was shocked,
actually. And there was an additional consideration: She hadn't said,
"Ummm," either. Not the usual luxurious, warm-moming-bed kind of
"ummm," and not the infrequent but still familiar stuffy, I-have-a-cold-
and-my-head-aches kind of "ummm," either.

No "ummm" at all.

The air-conditioning cycled off. For the first time Wyndham noticed
a strange smell — a faint, organic funk, like spoiled milk, or unwashed
feet.

Standing there in the dark, Wyndham began to have a very bad feeling.
It was a different kind of bad feeling than the one he'd had in Monica's
living room watching airliners plunge again and again into the World
Trade Center. That had been a powerful but largely impersonal bad feeling
— I say "largely impersonal" because Wyndham had a third cousin who
worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. (The cousin's name was Chris; Wyndham
had to look it up in his address book every year when he sent out cards
celebrating the birth of his personal savior.) The bad feeling he began to
have when his wife failed to say "ummm," on the other hand, was
powerful and personal.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

Concerned, Wyndham reached down and touched his wife's face. It
was like touching a woman made of wax, lifeless and cool, and it was at
that moment — that moment precisely — that Wyndham realized the
world had come to an end.

Everything after that was just details.

Beyond the mad scientists and corrupt bureaucrats, characters in end-
of-the-world stories typically come in one of three varieties.

The first is the rugged individualist. You know the type: self-reliant,
iconoclastic loners who know how to use firearms and deliver babies. By
story's end, they're well on their way to Reestablishing Western Civiliza-
tion — though they're usually smart enough not to return to the Bad Old
Ways.

The second variety is the post-apocalyptic bandit. These characters
often come in gangs, and they face off against the rugged survivor types.
If you happen to prefer cinematic incarnations of the end-of-the-world
tale, you can usually recognize them by their penchant for bondage gear,
punked-out haircuts, and customized vehicles. Unlike the rugged survi-
vors, the post-apocalyptic bandits embrace the Bad Old Ways — though
they're not displeased by the expanded opportunities to rape and pillage.

The third type of character — also pretty conunon, though a good deal
less so than the other two — is the world-weary sophisticate. Like
Wyndham, such characters drink too much; unlike Wyndham, they suffer
badly from ennui. Wyndham suffers too, of course, but whatever he suffers
from, you can bet it's not ennui.

We were discussing details, though:

Wyndham did the things people do when they discover a loved one
dead. He picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. There seemed to be
something wrong with the line, however; no one picked up on the other
end. Wyndham took a deep breath, went into the kitchen, and tried the
extension. Once again he had no success.

The reason, of course, was that, this being the end of the world, all the
people who were supposed to answer the phones were dead. Imagine them
being swept away by a tidal wave if that helps — which is exactly what
happened to more than three thousand people during a storm in Pakistan

FANTASY A SCIENCE FICTION

in 1960. (Not that this is literally what happened to the operators who
would have taken Wyndham's 9-1-1 call, you understand; but more about
what really happened to them later — the important thing is that one
moment they had been aUve; the next they were dead. Like Wyndham's wife. )

Wyndham gave up on the phone.

He went back into the bedroom. He performed a fumbling version of
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on his wife for fifteen minutes or so, and
then he gave that up, too. He walked into his daughter's bedroom (she was
twelve and her name was Ellen). He found her lying on her back, her
mouth slightly agape . He reached down to shake her — he was going to tell
her that something terrible had happened; that her mother had died — but
he found that something terrible had happened to her as well. The same
terrible thing, in fact.

Wyndham panicked.

He raced outside, where the first hint of red had begun to bleed up over
the horizon. His neighbor's automatic irrigation system was on, the heads
whickering in the silence, and as he sprinted across the lawn, Wyndham
felt the spray, like a cool hand against his face. Then, chilled, he was
standing on his neighbor's stoop. Hammering the door with both fists.
Screaming.

After a time — he didn't know how long — a dreadful calm settled
over him. There was no sound but the sound of the sprinklers, throwing
glittering arcs of spray into the halo of the street light on the comer.

He had a vision, then. It was as close as he had ever come to a moment
of genuine prescience. In the vision, he saw the suburban houses stretch-
ing away in silence before him. He saw the silent bedrooms. In them,
curled beneath the sheets, he saw a legion of sleepers, also silent, who
would never again wake up.

Wyndham swallowed.

Then he did something he could not have imagined doing even twenty
minutes ago. He bent over, fished the key from its hiding place between
the bricks, and let himself inside his neighbor's house.

The neighbor's cat slipped past him, mewing quemlously. Wyndham
had already reached down to retrieve it when he noticed the smell — that
unpleasant, faintly organic funk. Not spoiled milk, either. And not feet.
Something worse; soiled diapers, or a clogged toilet.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

Wyndham straightened, the cat forgotten.

"Herm?" he called. "Robin?"

No answer.

Inside, Wyndham picked up the phone, and dialed 9-1-1. He hstened
to it ring for a long time; then, without bothering to turn it off, Wyndham
dropped the phone to the floor. He made his way through the silent house,
snapping on lights. At the door to the master bedroom, he hesitated. The
odor — it was unmistakable now, a mingled stench of urine and feces, of
all the body's muscles relaxing at once — was stronger here. When he
spoke again, whispering really —

"Herm? Robin?"

— he no longer expected an answer.

Wyndham turned on the light. Robin and Herm were shapes in the
bed, unmoving. Stepping closer, Wyndham stared down at them. A
fleeting series of images cascaded through his mind, images of Herm and
Robin working the grill at the neighborhood block party or puttering in
their vegetable garden. They'd had a knack for tomatoes, Robin and Herm.
Wyndham's wife had always loved their tomatoes.

Something caught in Wyndham's throat.

He went away for a while then.

The world just grayed out on him.

When he came back, Wyndham found himself in the hving room,
standing in front of Robin and Herm's television. He turned it on and
cycled through the channels, but there was nothing on. Literally
nothing. Snow, that's all. Seventy-five channels of snow. The end of
the world had always been televised in Wyndham's experience. The fact
that it wasn't being televised now suggested that it really was the end of
the world.

This is not to suggest that television validates human experience —
of the end of the world or indeed of anything else, for that matter.

You could ask the people of Pompeii, if most of them hadn't died in
a volcano eruption in 79 a.d., nearly two millennia before television.
When Vesuvius erupted, sending lava thundering down the mountainside
at four miles a minute, some sixteen thousand people perished. By some
freakish geological quirk, some of them — their shells, anyway — were

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

preserved, frozen inside casts of volcanic ash. Their arms are outstretched
in pleas for mercy, their faces frozen in horror.

For a fee, you can visit them today.

Here's one of my favorite end-of-the-world scenarios by the way:

Carnivorous plants.

Wyndham got in his car and went looking for assistance — a function-
ing telephone or television, a helpful passer-by. He found instead more
non-functioning telephones and televisions. And, of course, more non-
functioning people: lots of those, though he had to look harder for them
than you might have expected. They weren't scattered in the streets, or
dead at the wheels of their cars in a massive traffic jam — though
Wyndham supposed that might have been the case somewhere in Europe,
where the catastrophe — whatever it was — had fallen square in the
middle of the morning rush.

Here, however, it seemed to have caught most folks at home in bed;
as a result, the roads were more than usually passable.

At a loss — numb, really — Wyndham drove to work. He might have
been in shock by then. He'd gotten accustomed to the smell, anyway, and
the corpses of the night shift — men and women he'd known for sixteen
years, in some cases — didn't shake him as much. What did shake him was
the sight of all the packages in the sorting area: He was struck suddenly
by the fact that none of them would ever be delivered. So Wyndham loaded
his truck and went out on his route. He wasn't sure why he did it — maybe
because he'd rented a movie once in which a post-apocalyptic drifter scav-
enges a U.S. Postal uniform and manages to Reestabhsh Western Civilization
(but not the Bad Old Ways) by assuming the postman's appointed rounds.
The futility of Wyndham's own efforts quickly became evident, however.

He gave it up when he found that even Monica — or, as he more often
thought of her, the Home Shopping Network Lady — was no longer in the
business of receiving packages. Wyndham found her face down on the
kitchen floor, clutching a shattered coffee mug in one hand. In death she
had neither a pretty face nor a nice personality. She did have that same ripe
unpleasant odor, however. In spite of it, Wyndham stood looking down at
her for the longest time. He couldn't seem to look away.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

When he finally did look away, Wyndham went back to the living
room where he had once watched nearly three thousand people die, and
opened her package himself. When it came to UPS rules, the Home
Shopping Network Lady's living room was turning out to be something of
a post-apocalyptic zone in its own right.

Wyndham tore the mailing tape off and dropped it on the floor. He
opened the box. Inside, wrapped safely in three layers of bubble wrap, he
found a porcelain statue of Elvis Presley.

Elvis Presley, the King of Rock 'n' Roll, died August 16, 1977, while
sitting on the toilet. An autopsy revealed that he had ingested an impres-
sive cocktail of prescription drugs — including codeine, ethinimate,
methaqualone, and various barbiturates. Doctors also found trace ele-
ments of Valium, Demerol, and other pharmaceuticals in his veins.

For a time, Wyndham comforted himself with the illusion that the
end of the world had been a local phenomenon. He sat in his truck outside
the Home Shopping Network Lady's house and awaited rescue — the
sound of sirens or approaching choppers, whatever. He fell asleep cradling
the porcelain statue of Elvis. He woke up at dawn, stiff from sleeping in
the truck, to find a stray dog nosing around outside.

Clearly rescue would not be forthcoming.

Wyndham chased off the dog and placed Elvis gently on the sidewalk.
Then he drove off, heading out of the city. Periodically, he stopped, each
time confirming what he had already known the minute he touched his
dead wife's face: The end of the world was upon him. He found nothing but
non-functioning telephones, non-functioning televisions, and non-func-
tioning people. Along the way he listened to a lot of non-functioning radio
stations.

You, like Wyndham, may be curious about the catastrophe that has
befallen everyone in the world around him. You may even be wondering
why Wyndham has survived.

End-of-the-world tales typically make a big deal about such things,
but Wyndham's curiosity will never be satisfied. Unfortunately, neither
will yours.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Shit happens.

It's the end of the world after all.

HE DINOSAURS never discovered what caused
their extinction, either.

At this writing, however, most scientists agree that
the dinosaurs met their fate when an asteroid nine miles

wide plowed into the Earth just south of the Yucatan Peninsula, triggering
gigantic tsunamis, hurricane-force winds, worldwide forest fires, and a
flurry of volcanic activity. The crater is still there — it's 120 miles wide
and more than a mile deep — but the dinosaurs, along with seventy-five
percent of the other species then alive, are gone. Many of them died in the
impact, vaporized in an explosion equivalent to thousands of megatons.
Those that survived the initial cataclysm would have perished soon after
as acid rain poisoned the world's water, and dust obscured the Sun,
plunging the planet into a years-long winter.

For what it's worth, this impact was merely the most dramatic in a
long series of mass extinctions; they occur in the fossil record at roughly
thirty million-year intervals. Some scientists have linked these intervals
to the solar system's periodic journey through the galactic plane, which
dislodges millions of comets from the Oort cloud beyond Pluto, raining
them down on Earth. This theory, still contested, is called the Shiva
Hypothesis in honor of the Hindu god of destruction.

The inhabitants of Lisbon would have appreciated the allusion on
November 1, 1 755, when the city was struck by an earthquake measuring
8.5 on the Richter Scale. The tremor leveled more than twelve thousand
homes and ignited a fire that burned for six days.

More than sixty thousand people perished.

This event inspired Voltaire to write Candide, in which Dr. Pangloss
advises us that this is the best of all possible worlds.

Wyndham could have filled the gas tank in his truck. There were gas
stations at just about every exit along the highway, and they seemed to be
functioning well enough. He didn't bother, though.

When the truck ran out of gas, he just pulled to the side of the road.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

hopped down, and struck off across the fields. When it started getting dark
— this was before he had launched himself on the study of just how it is
night falls — he took shelter in the nearest house.

It was a nice place, a two-story brick set well back from the country
road he was by then walking on. It had some big trees in the front yard. In
the back, a shaded lawn sloped down to the kind of woods you see in
movies, but not often in real life: enormous, old trees with generous, leaf-
carpeted avenues. It was the kind of place his wife would have loved, and
he regretted having to break a window to get inside. But there it was: It was
the end of the world and he had to have a place to sleep. What else could
he do?

Wyndham hadn't planned to stay there, but when he woke up the
next morning he couldn't think of anywhere to go. He found two non-
functional old people in one upstairs bedroom and he tried to do for
them what he had not been able to do for his wife and daughter: Using
a spade from the garage, he started digging a grave in the front yard.
After an hour or so, his hands began to blister and crack. His muscles —
soft from sitting behind the wheel of a UPS truck for all those years —
rebelled.

He rested for a while, and then he loaded the old people into the car
he found parked in the garage — a slate-blue Volvo station wagon with
37,3 12 miles on the odometer. He drove them a mile or two down the road,
pulled over, and laid them out, side by side, in a grove of beech trees. He
tried to say some words over them before he left — his wife would have
wanted him to — but he couldn't think of anything appropriate so he
finally gave it up and went back to the house.

It wouldn't have made much difference: Though Wyndham didn't
know it, the old people were lapsed Jews. According to the faith Wyndham
shared with his wife, they were doomed to bum in hell for all eternity
anyway. Both of them were first-generation immigrants; most of their
families had already been burned up in ovens at Dachau and Buchenwald.

Burning wouldn't have been anything new for them.

Speaking of fires, the Triangle Shirt Waist Factory in New York City
burned on March 25, 1911. One hundred and forty-six people died. Many

FANTASY 8l SCIENCE FICTION

of them might have survived, but the factory's owners had locked the exits
to prevent theft.

Rome burned, too. It is said that Nero fiddled.

Back at the house, Wyndham washed up and made himself a drink
from the liquor cabinet he found in the kitchen. He'd never been much of
a drinker before the world ended, but he didn't see any reason not to give
it a try now. His experiment proved such a success that he began sitting
out on the porch nights, drinking gin and watching the sky. One night he
thought he saw a plane, lights blinking as it arced high overhead. Later,
sober, he concluded that it must have been a satellite, still whipping
around the planet, beaming down telemetry to empty listening stations
and abandoned command posts.

A day or two later the power went out. And a few days after that,
Wyndham ran out of liquor. Using the Volvo, he set off in search of a town.
Characters in end-of-the-world stories commonly drive vehicles of two
types: The jaded sophisticates tend to drive souped-up sports cars, often
racing them along the Australian coastline because what else do they have
to live for; everyone else drives rugged SUVs. Since the 1991 Persian Gulf
War — in which some twenty-three thousand people died, most of them
Iraqi conscripts killed by American smart bombs — military-style Humvees
have been especially coveted. Wyndham, however, found the Volvo
entirely adequate to his needs.

No one shot at him.

He was not assaulted by a roving pack of feral dogs.

He found a town after only fifteen minutes on the road. He didn't see
any evidence of looting. Everybody was too dead to loot; that's the way it
is at the end of the world.

On the way, Wyndham passed a sporting goods store where he did not
stop to stock up on weapons or survival equipment. He passed numerous
abandoned vehicles, but he did not stop to siphon off some gas. He did stop
at the liquor store, where he smashed a window with a rock and helped
himself to several cases of gin, whiskey, and vodka. He also stopped at the
grocery store, where he found the reeking bodies of the night crew
sprawled out beside carts of supplies that would never make it onto the
shelves. Holding a handkerchief over his nose, Wyndham loaded up on

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

tonic water and a variety of other mixers. He also got some canned goods,
though he didn't feel any imperative to stock up beyond his immediate
needs. He ignored the bottled water.

In the book section, he did pick up a bartender's guide.

Some end-of-the-world stories present us with two post-apocalypse
survivors, one male and one female. These two survivors take it upon
themselves to Repopulate the Earth, part of their larger effort to Reestab-
lish Western Civilization without the Bad Old Ways. Their names are
always artfully withheld until the end of the story, at which point they are
invariably revealed to be Adam and Eve.

The truth is, almost all end-of-the-world stories are at some level
Adam-and-Eve stories. That may be why they enjoy such popularity. In
the interests of total disclosure, I will admit that in fallow periods of my
own sexual life — and, alas, these periods have been more frequent than
I'd care to admit — I've often found Adam-and-Eve post-holocaust fanta-
sies strangely comforting. Being the only man alive significantly reduces
the potential for rejection in my view. And it cuts performance anxiety
practically to nothing.

There's a woman in this story, too.

Don't get your hopes up.

By this time, Wyndham has been living in the brick house for almost
two weeks. He sleeps in the old couple's bedroom, and he sleeps pretty
well, but maybe that's the gin. Some mornings he wakes up disoriented,
wondering where his wife is and how he came to be in a strange place.
Other mornings he wakes up feeling like he dreamed everything else and
this has always been his bedroom.

One day, though, he wakes up early, to gray pre-dawn light. Someone
is moving around downstairs. Wyndham's curious, but he's not afraid. He
doesn't wish he'd stopped at the sporting goods store and gotten a gun.
Wyndham has never shot a gun in his life. If he did shoot someone — even
a post-apocalyptic punk with cannibalism on his mind — he'd probably
have a breakdown.

Wyndham doesn't try to disguise his presence as he goes downstairs.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

There's a woman in the living room. She's not bad looking, this woman
— blonde in a washed-out kind of way, trim, and young, twenty-five,
thirty at the most. She doesn't look extremely clean, and she doesn't smell
much better, but hygiene hasn't been uppermost on Wyndham's mind
lately, either. Who is he to judge?

"I was looking for a place to sleep," the woman says.

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs," Wyndham tells her.

T he next morning — it's really almost noon,

but Wyndham has gotten into the habit of sleeping late
— they eat breakfast together: a Pop Tart for the woman,
a bowl of dry Cheerios for Wyndham.

They compare notes, but we don't need to get into that. It's the end
of the world and the woman doesn't know how it happened any more than
Wyndham does or you do or anybody ever does. She does most of the
talking, though. Wyndham's never been much of a talker, even at the best
of times.

He doesn't ask her to stay. He doesn't ask her to leave.

He doesn't ask her much of anything.

That's how it goes all day.

Sometimes the whole sex thing causes the end of the world.

In fact, if you'll permit me to reference Adam and Eve just one more
time, sex and death have been connected to the end of the world ever since
— well, the beginning of the world. Eve, despite warnings to the contrary,
eats of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and realizes
she's naked — that is, a sexual being. Then she introduces Adam to the
idea by giving him a bite of the fruit.

God punishes Adam and Eve for their transgression by kicking them
out of Paradise and introducing death into the world. And there you have
it; the first apocalypse, eras and thanatos all tied up in one neat little
bundle, and it's all Eve's fault.

No wonder feminists don't hke that story. It's a pretty corrosive view
of female sexuality when you think about it.

Coincidentally, perhaps, one of my favorite end-of-the-world stories
involves some astronauts who fall into a time warp; when they get out

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

they leam that all the men are dead. The women have done pretty well for
themselves in the meantime. They no longer need men to reproduce and
they've set up a society that seems to work okay without men — better in
fact than our messy two-sex societies ever have.

But do the men stay out of it?

They do not. They're men, after all, and they're driven by their need
for sexual dominance. It's genetically encoded so to speak, and it's not
long before they're trying to turn this Eden into another fallen world. It's
sex that does it, violent male sex — rape, actually. In other words, sex
that's more about the violence than the sex.

And certainly nothing to do with love.

Which, when you think about it, is a pretty corrosive view of male
sexuality.

The more things change the more they stay the same, I guess.

Wyndham, though.

Wyndham heads out on the porch around three. He's got some tonic.
He's got some gin. It's what he does now. He doesn't know where the
woman is, doesn't have strong feelings on the issue either way.

He's been sitting there for hours when she joins him. Wyndham
doesn't know what time it is, but the air has that hazy underwater quality
that comes around twilight. Darkness is starting to pool under the trees,
the crickets are tuning up, and it's so peaceful that for a moment
Wyndham can almost forget that it's the end of the world.

Then the screen door claps shut behind the woman. Wyndham can
tell right away that she's done something to herself, though he couldn't
tell you for sure what it is: that magic women do, he guesses. His wife used
to do it, too. She always looked good to him, but sometimes she looked just
flat-out amazing. Some powder, a little blush. Lipstick. You know.

And he appreciates the effort. He does. He's flattered even. She's an
attractive woman. Intelligent, too.

The truth is, though, he's just not interested.

She sits beside him, and all the time she's talking. And though she
doesn't say it in so many words, what she's talking about is Repopulating
the World and Reestablishing Western Civilization. She's talking about
Duty. She's talking about it because that's what you're supposed to talk

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

about at times like this. But underneath that is sex. And underneath that,
way down, is loneliness — and he has some sympathy for that, Wyndham
does. After a while, she touches Wyndham, but he's got nothing. He might
as well be dead down there.

"What's wrong with you?" she says.

Wyndham doesn't know how to answer her. He doesn't know how to
tell her that the end of the world isn't about any of that stuff. The end of
the world is about something else, he doesn't have a word for it.

So, anyway, Wyndham's wife.

She has another book on her nightstand, too. She doesn't read it every
night, only on Sundays. But the week before the end of the world the story
she was reading was the story of Job.

You know the story, right?

It goes like this; God and Satan — the Adversary, anyway; that's
probably the better translation — make a wager. They want to see just how
much shit God's most faithful servant will eat before he renounces his
faith. The servant's name is fob. So they make the wager, and God starts
feeding Job shit. Takes his riches, takes his cattle, takes his health.
Deprives him of his friends. On and on. Finally — and this is the part that
always got to Wyndham — God takes Job's wife and his children.

Let me clarify: In this context "takes" should be read as "kills."

You with me on this? Like Krakatoa, a volcanic island that used to
exist between Java and Sumatra. On August 27, 1883, Krakatoa exploded,
spewing ash fifty miles into the sky and vomiting up five cubic miles of
rock. The concussion was heard three thousand miles away. It created
tsunamis towering one hundred twenty feet in the air. Imagine all that
water crashing down on the flimsy villages that lined the shores of Java
and Sumatra.

Thirty thousand people died.

Every single one of them had a name.

Job's wife and kids. Dead. Just like thirty thousand nameless Javanese.

As for Job? He keeps shoveling down the shit. He will not renounce
God. He keeps the faith. And he's rewarded: God gives him back his riches,
his cattle. God restores his health, and sends him friends. God replaces his
wife and kids.

Pay attention: Word choice is important in an end-of-the- world story.

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

I said "replaces," not "restores."

Different wife. Different kids.

The other wife, the other kids? They stay dead, gone, non-function-
ing, erased forever from the Earth, just like the dinosaurs and the twelve
million undesirables incinerated by the Nazis and the five hundred
thousand slaughtered in Rwanda and the 1.7 million murdered in Cambo-
dia and the sixty million immolated in the Middle Passage.

That merry prankster God.

That jokester.

That’s what the end of the world is about, Wyndham wants to say.
The rest is just details.

By this point the woman (You want her to have a name? She deserves
one, don't you think? ) has started to weep softly. Wyndham gets to his feet
and goes into the dark kitchen for another glass. Then he comes back out
to the porch and makes a gin and tonic. He sits beside her and presses the
cool glass upon her. It's all he knows to do.

"Here," he says. "Drink this. It'll help." 'f

See, Billy t There isn't a biology student in your closet.

The latest news regarding Mr. Bishop (almost all of which is available on his
Website at www.michaelbishop-WTiter.comj is that we can look forward to a
collection of essays, reviews, memoirs and more sometime in 2005. The title of
this forthcoming book is A Reverie for Mister Ray: Reflections on Life, Death, and
Speculative Fiction. Mr. Bishop also notes that he is working on a series of short
pieces set in Georgia over the last seven decades, but here he brings us a story that
says we aren't in Georgia anymore. This wry piece is something of a tribute to the
late George Alec Effinger, a writer who paid homage to quite a few writers in his
own way (particularly under the nom de plume of O. Niemand).

The Angst of God

By Michael Bishop

HE ZTUN STUNNED US.

They had seen that certain arrogant
superpowers and certain stateless fa-
natics gripped Earth in a brutal vise,
and they were appalled. Outraged on our behalf, the ztun intervened. After
parking their light cruiser in disguised orbit around Earth, they dropped
microscopic chemical "seeds" into our atmosphere. These reacted with
our terrestrial gasses, rendering any human indigene — and only human
indigenes — comatose for twenty-four hours or an entire year, depending
on the innate bellicosity of the person incapacitated. You could say that
the ztun gassed us, but actually they reconfigured the makeup of our air.
The ztvm stunned us, for our own good.

The ztun do not discriminate among "civilized" worlds in exercising
either their judgment or their powers. They reconnoiter the dense core
and the diffuse spiral arms of our galaxy making their lists and checking
them twice. They determine which sentient species are naughty and
which nice and chemically correct every instance of the former. The
magic grains by which the ztun reconfigure a planetary atmosphere

THE ANGST OF GOD

Stymie the worst bullies for a full local year, but let the lowly and the
peaceful resume their lives after only a single day of oblivion. By the time
the ztun stunned us human beings, they had already "gassed" a dozen
intelligent species in our galactic vicinity. Then they abducted all the
most warlike leaders, to psychoanalyze in the long transit to their home
world.

As an analogy, let me cite the gassing of the Moscow Opera House,
decades ago, when Islamic separatists seized that building and held its
occupants hostage. The black-clad rebels threatened to blow everyone up
if the Russian leader refused to stop the war in Chechnya and to grant it
independence. Wisely or foolishly, the Russian authorities used a secret
gas to knock out everyone in the Opera House, terrorists and hostages
alike. Unfortunately, so crudely did this gas work that, although it ended
the siege, it also killed many of those gassed, including 120 hostages.

The ztun, however, are better chemists, physicists, astronomers,
engineers, and general technophiles than those bumbling Russians. In-
deed, they excel at such tasks, lacking peers in the known universe. And
so, when altering the atmospheres of worlds with morally pesky and/or
deficient intelligent species, they rarely take a life. Those autochthons
that accidentally die, the ztun regard as martyrs to their ethical cleansing
of yet another reprehensible species.

"We've done you a favor," the ztun argued. "Uprooted your vilest
weeds and taken them home to repot as hollyhocks."

"Roses," I said to my shipboard counselor. "The hollyhock's a gaudy
plant with no poetic resonances."

"We know hollyhocks, " Counselor Ztang said. "And, believe me, we
find them lovelier than your run-of-the-trellis Bobby Bums roses."

I belonged to a small caste of bellicose entities whom the ztun had
chosen to take home to their small planet orbiting the star Spica (274 light
years from Earth). The inside of their light cmiser — what I'd seen of it —
resembled a cross between a brand-new sewer system (lots of tubular
passages, metal ladders, and oddly placed manhole covers) and a high-tech
playground (redwood monkey bars, cedar-sided slides and swings, and
cmmbly peat-moss-carpeted floors). The decor stemmed in part from the
fact that the ztun are lanky humanoid legumes with lianas for limbs and

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

yellowish pods for bellies, butts, and heads. However, I spent most of my
time in a metaboUc-suspension berth — the ztun call them beds, of course

— to avoid the effects of aging, which the ztun escaped by sprouting new
appendages every few days.

Every other alien captive also went into a suspension berth. At length,
I met five others. Counselor Ztang brought us together now and again for

— well, group-therapy sessions. Previously, you see, I had served the Half
Vast Rocky Mountain Hegemon as commander-in-chief of its Global
Interdiction & Liberation Force. So I bridled when Ztang told me to sit, to
speak, or to pay more attention. Who did Ztang think he was, anyway?
And why should a man of my status kowtow to a yellowbelly bean like
him, even under threat of instant molecular dispersal?

Well, circumstances change minds, and rapping with my alien therapy
mates gave me to understand that rank is relative, and life a fleeting dream

— when it isn't an outright outr6 nightmare.

At my first session, Ztang introduced me to the chief decapitationist
of an inner planet of 61 Cygni A (1 1.2 light years from Earth). We met in
the main therapy cabin, where a mother-of-pearl mist imparted a gothic
surreality to our talk. The air in this cabin was Omnirespirable O (the ztun
designation for a universally life-supporting mix), and Ztang gave my
partner and me DNA-coded translator scarabs. I put mine in my ear, but
the reptilian Cygnusian stuck his to his cobalt-blue throat. The lizard
called himself a "toidi," his name for the dominant intelligent species on
his home planet, and, frankly, he stank — like a combo of sour apricots and
snaky sex.

"Go ahead," Counselor Ztang urged the toidi. "Tell General Draper
who you are and why you're here."

"Call me Al, " the lizard said. And then he wept, exuding from his skin
a ruby-red oil that lent his signature B.O. a sweet fecal undertone.

"Gaah," I said.

Our scarabs translated, rendering my "Gaah" into late-empiric En-
glish as "Al’s scent borders on the putrid." Al noted that he could say the
same of mine, so Ztang broke out a spray bulb to neutralize the odors
gagging us both.

Al admitted authorizing all the political decapitations in the pre-
dominant nation on the only life-supporting planet circling 61 Cygni A.

THE ANGST OF GOD

He admitted having the victims' severed heads placed atop the cactus-
ringed rocks marking their family burrows. Al felt no remorse for this
brutality, though, which he claimed had kept his nation from plunging
into cold-blooded anarchy. Ztang's mouth fringes rippled, but he said
nothing.

I spoke into his silence: "Counselor, how can a species that's poisoned
the air of twelve planets presume to teach anyone nonviolent behavior?"

My mind turned inside out. An indivisible blackness came upon me.

But my second official gathering included the toidi again and an
energy creature from Epsilon Eridani FV ( 10.7 light years from Earth). This
creature, with a head like an otter's, flickered unpredictably in and out of
view. She answered to the name Seyj and smelled of stale Worcestershire
sauce and fried plastic — until Ztang neutralized her scent with his
papaya-shaped spray bulb.

Seyj and her kind lived amid a system of charged fields that the chief
political entity on her planet generated and withdrew at whim, often
killing fellow "caparoina" — as all intelligent Eridanians were called —
hostile to its policies. The ztun believed that Seyj herself had authorized
the withdrawal of fields resulting in two million caparoina deaths. Like
Al, however, Seyj insisted that her actions had saved her world from both
barbarism and commercial stagnation.

Ztang eyed me meaningfully. "Please, General Draper, reintroduce
yourself to Al and tell both him and Seyj what most troubles you this
morning."

The bean terrified me. What if my words again rendered me non grata ?
Sensing my reluctance, Ztang lifted a finger pod and swore that nothing
I uttered would expel me from his good graces.

"In that case," I said, "what most frets me today is the impunity with
which you judgmental ztun have butted in all over our galaxy."

Al gasped and sweated his ruby sweat. Seyj's head pulsed out of view,
leaving only the gray outline of her body behind.

And, yes, an indivisible blackness seized me.

But Counselor Ztang forgave me. A week later, in a new session, I met
a seven-armed, chitin-plated sentient caterpillar from the Tau Ceti sys-
tem (11.9 light years from Earth). This caterpillar, Kaa Lotcharre, had
invented a liquid incendiary called "spark tar," which flowed across the

FANTASY «>. SCIENCE FICTION

countryside igniting the enemy upon contact and reducing him to ash.
Lotcharre — scientist and tar master — boasted of his expertise as a
materials engineer and a genocidal assassin. Al and Seyj, brutal
decapitationist and ruthless force-field manipulator, sat unmoving, vis-
ibly cowed. I laughed — derisively, I admit — and was slammed a third
time into indivisible blackness.

Eventually, I met two more war criminals, the last in my group of six:
a jellyfish with front-facing eyes, and a living slab of ochre granite that
pulsed with ennui and a large inner constituency of agitated flecks of
mica. The jellyfish hailed from Groombridge 34 (11.6 light years from
Earth), smelled vaguely like cotton candy, and answered to a name
something like Gilneta. The granite slab had originated on a planet
orbiting Lacaille 9352 (11.7 light years from Earth). A hermaphrodite
named Bacmudsorak, it locomoted on a rubbery foot and secreted a musky
slime that it shoved backward to create a pressure gradient enabling it to
move forward. Bacmudsorak kept many crystalline personalities within
itself and felled its enemies by sending subliminal bolts of igneous music
at them via headache-inducing radio frequencies.

I said nothing when Counselor Ztang introduced me to Gilneta, the
jellyfish, and so escaped early banishment to my suspension berth. But
during my next session, with Bacmudsorak on hand in the guise of a
glowing, lopsided coffee table, I tapped my feet to some sort of heavy,
heartfelt, subliminal music.

Al's wattles undulated, Seyj's head pulsed in and out of view,
Lotcharre's seven arms writhed, and Gilneta's iridescent violet bell
swayed as if combers from a fearful oceanic storm were pounding her. As
for Counselor Ztang, his runners grew and shrank in beat-driven cycles,
and the beans in his pods rattled like a set of traps. Bacmudsorak
thrummed, and everyone jived. Don't ask me what that rock confessed to,
but, unlike the rest of us, it did communicate a candid remorse.

Over our next few meetings, against my expectations, Al, Seyj, Kaa
Lotcharre, Gilneta, Bacmudsorak, and I bonded.

Al lamented the inevitable heartbreak of cold-bloodedness in most
toidi family relationships. Seyj confessed the trauma of learning that a
sister caparoina had a bipolar electrical orientation, and Kaa Lotcharre

THE ANGST OF GOD

observed that few citizens of his war-tom land could manage the complex
excmciations of metamorphosis without breaking; indeed, he had spun
silk about himself at least three times to escape adulthood rather than to
trigger it. Gilneta opened up, lamenting the nettlesome nature of
jellyfishhood, particularly one's dependence for transport on methane
swells and cetacean nudges. Bacmudsorak, swearing us all to secrecy,
noted that early in its igneous development, it had harbored a millennia-
long case of pyroclastic envy against a pit mine of collateral laminates.
Even Counselor Ztang, usually one shut-mouthed bean, let slip that a
virulent fungal smut had almost derailed his aspirations to enter the ztun
space force.

And I, Myron "Pit Bull" Draper?

Well, I acknowledged that I had secured my high position in the
Rocky Mountain Hegemon by boinking President Bobeck's wife, Eustace,
and diverting a thousand shares of my own dirty-bomb stock to the
portfolio of the Secretary of War. I also admitted my teenage affair with a
comely creature on an Alberta sheep ranch, tossing hand grenades at
protected wolves, paying a heroin addict to put a nail bomb in the mailbox
of a peacenik fag, and using tax monies to indulge my three-decade-old
pink-shoe fetish. I reckon I got carried away.

My support group listened closely. Seyj fought hardest to withhold
judgment, I believe, and the disappearance of her head for part of this
session no doubt bespoke the intensity of her ambivalence. Ztang de-
hisced, scattering a rattle of seeds across the floor, but everyone else
offered upbeat, if bemused, encouragement.

When next we met, Seyj declared that of all us captives in the ztun
therapy cabin, only I interposed artificial accoutrements between my
body and their optical equipment. In short, I wore clothes.

"So?" Bacmudsorak said.

My refusal to appear before them nude, Seyj noted, left me open to
accusations of betraying, at best, my ridiculous human vanity and, at
worst, a therapy-thwarting lack of candor.

Actually, Kaa Lotcharre wore a cap, a kind of yarmulke, but he, Al,
and Gilneta clamored for me to shed the military uniform in which the
ztun had tweezered me aboard their ship. Eventually, I gave in. What else
could I do?

FANTASY 81 . SCIENCE FICTION

Instantly, the jellyfish from Groombridge 34 orbited my bipedal self,
swimming about me as if in water rather than air. Seyj sent her head
over to ogle me, and Al palpated me from neck to knee as I indignantly
squirmed. Kaa Lotcharre shrugged seven times, eyeing me from afar.

"I presume that's your reproductive unit," he said. "But on the basis
of its shape, not on its size."

Pate to pediment, I flushed a bioluminescent red.

Seyj's head rebounded back to her flickering otterine form. "Orna-
ment yourself again. Draper," she said. "You're not really hiding much,
and after our last few sessions, I no longer relish playing the bully."

I obeyed, not so much out of embarrassment as from a sudden-onset
chill, and I never appeared before them again minus my military blues.
Which made me wonder just how "civilized" they could be, if none of their
species had hit upon the concept of clothes for fashion, warmth, and
intimidation.

A nd so, meeting and sleeping, sleeping and
meeting, we passed our time aboard the ztun ship.
Conquistador. The ties among us hired warmongers and
genocidal maniacs grew tighter, more profound. Before
my abduction, I would never have believed that the tidal dependencies of
a jellyfish could elicit my sympathy, that the spiritual longings of an off-
red slab of granite could influence my own, or that a whiff of lizard could
render me maudlin. Which proves that astonishing links exist among the
sentient creatures in our galaxy, and that even mercenary paladins from
different planets pine for interspecies amity.

Although we never shared a meal — the ztun had foreseen major
problems in our doing so — we shared our hang-ups and hopes, and we
strove to forge a humane unitary personality from our separate barbaric
faults.

Over time, we even touched one another in our suspension berths, via
disorienting dreams, a few of which suggested the work of Hollywood &.
Whine vid directors. I often got on Bacmudsorak's frequency, and occa-
sionally on Kaa Lotcharre's. Owing to their dreams, I soon understood that
the caterpillar regarded metamorphosis as a personality-annihilating
form of death, and that the Big Slab had a petrifying existential horror of

THE ANGST OF GOD

the end of the universe, which it saw as nigh and certain rather than far
off and theoretical. I mean, some of this stuff we had never even talked
about. In dreams begin derangements, I guess, and although none of us
greatly minded getting to know our therapy mates better through our
nightmares, we soon began to resist Counselor Ztang's commands to wrap
up our regular sessions and to return to our beds.

"You're acting like sprouts," Ztang scolded. "Putting off bedtime for
as long as you childishly can."

So off we'd slink to our coffins, where A1 dreamt of cannibalizing a
head that he had cut off, Seyj emitted bursts of psychic energy that crisped
our nerve endings, and Gilneta broadcast visions of juvenile polyps
attacking leviathans in underwater grottoes as roomy as outdoor rodeo
arenas. And we all quivered in unison, full of fret and dread — not to
mention longing for a regular group-therapy session.

Then, during one such meeting (until that point, trauma-free), poor
Gilneta up and died. One moment the medusa drifted about in the mother-
of-pearl mist; the next, her tentacles dropped, her bell collapsed, and she
plunged like a defective parachute. The spray that Ztang used to neutral-
ize our competing stinks failed, and the cabin filled with an odor commin-
gling the scents of rum, kelp, and necrotic coconut meat.

Everyone froze — even Bacmudsorak looked a bit more rigid than
usual — until Lotcharre inched across the floor and disposed of GUneta's
corpse by eating it. This act struck none of us as disrespectful, owing to the
reverence with which Lotcharre ate and our own lack of relish for seafood.

After this incident, Bacmudsorak's nightmares worsened. Most of
these dreams put the slab at their center: It turned red as lava, for example,
and flowed downhill into a quenching pit; or broke into crystals as tiny as
frost filaments and melted; or eroded over centuries into squishy sea sand.
Then, in a nightmare of my own, Bacmudsorak set itself up in my old
hometown as a tombstone:

General Myron "Pit Bull" Draper

R.I.P.

I could not wake up. In fact, I would have died in my sleep if Lotcharre
had not projected at me a dream in which the caterpillar did a clumsy

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

impersonation of the Hindu goddess Kali. Then he grabbed a hookah and
blew smoke rings. These rings had started to turn red, blue, and yellow,
and to fuse into butterfly wings, when I finally slid out of nightmare and
back into picture-free sleep.

At our next session, Ztang delivered a lecture. He informed us,
brusquely, that our death fears were foolish and that Gilneta's demise
should comfort rather than bum us out. Ztun science had discovered that
our expanding universe was closed rather than open, and this fact meant
that the universe would not diffuse into "a tenuous blanket of matter and
antimatter debris," via the deterministic engines of the heat-death hy-
pothesis, but would "cease its outward motion and contract. " This action,
in turn, would one day lead to a new Big Bang and the prospect of a fresh
cycle of star making and civilization building.

I said, "Then we ought to call it the Big Boomerang!"

Nobody congratulated me on my coinage. (Maybe our scarabs had
failed to find good equivalencies for boomeiang.) Indeed, Bacmudsorak
protested that, by its species' calculations, the universe lacked sufficient
matter to generate the gravity necessary to prevent it from expanding
forever. Lacking such a brake, the universe would never end, but persist
unto eternity, in ever- widening, frigid darkness. Gilneta's death had made
Bacmudsorak profoundly aware of this fact, and Ztang's recitation of a
more optimistic formula for the fate of the universe could not persuade the
Big Slab to renounce the real truth as it perceived it.

Ztang argued that although most other species' astronomers had
failed to account for as much as ninety percent of the universe's mass, the
ztun knew with certainty that dark matter and dark energy sufficient to
halt and reverse universal expansion actually existed. This dark matter,
he told us, consisted of particles that do not influence nuclear reactions,
i.e., neutrinos, WIMPs (weakly interactive massive particles), and hypo-
thetical quantum-level ztun ztones. The dark energy, on the other hand,
arose not only from a tangle of fields dispersed throughout the vacuum at
the subatomic stratum, but also from the hidden gravity-imparting
properties of the angst of God.

"The angst of God?" we captives chorused.

"Precisely." Counselor Ztang explained that although the religions of

THE ANGST OF GOD

many sentient creatures either denied the need for a creation-triggering
deity or held that God would "never suffer angst," the ztun had authen-
ticated God's existence and conducted experiments confirming the promi-
nence of divine dread among those dark energies still undetected by our
species. And it was divine dread — the angst of God — that would keep the
cosmos from slipping into ceaseless entropic decrepitude.

Silence — a localized entropic decrepitude — greeted Ztang's speech.
We captives glanced at one another and then at Ztang, hoping that he
would document his claim or die as our poor jellyfish had done. Ulti-
mately, Lotcharre asked Ztang what the alleged deity had to feel any angst
about?

"The unrelieved, inventive brutality of intelligent creatures against
their own kind." Ztang looked at me and added, "The inhumanity of
humanity, if you will, to its very self. "

Ouch, I thought. Lotcharre lifted his seventh arm, as if saluting God,
and with his other six arms embraced himself. Seyj's head faded from
view, and the scorch of fried plastic wafted from her body. Al hunkered
down like a lizard on a rock, and the mica in Bacmudsorak's topside
maniacally twinkled.

"Now, do you see why we intervened in your worlds' affairs?" Ztang
asked self-righteously.

Oh, man. I hated Ztang in this mode. Although I nodded, I tuned him
out to think of what I most missed about my previous life: brown-nosing
aides-de-camp, taking my paychecks in foldable cash, and net-surfing for
pink shoes.

Bacmudsorak began to thrum, broadcasting to each of us, Ztang
included, a beat that made our internal fluids ebb and flow erratically.
"You want to lessen God's angst," the rock said.

"Right," Ztang said. "Very good."

"And by lessening God's angst, you will diminish the supply of dark
energy at large in the universe."

"Maybe," Ztang said warily.

"And by lessening this dark energy," Bacmudsorak pursued, "you
will guarantee the open-endedness of the cosmos, its heat death, and the
suffocation of every contingent intelligence but God's. "

"No." Ztang's various yellow pods had already begun to mottle.

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Yes, " Bacmudsorak said. "Logic leads to a single conclusion, namely,
that the ztun have aligned themselves with entropy and against the — "

I blurted, "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower."
Where had this line come from? Oh, yeah: from a postcoital session with
Eustace Bobeck in a cabin at Camp David. She had written her masters
thesis on Dylan Thomas.

Ignorant of my sources, Bacmudsorak finished its own sentence:
"And against the powers of life and regeneration."

What can I say? That was the last time the slab of granite from Lacaille
9352 met with us as a responsive entity. At our next meeting, Ztang had
Al, Seyi, Lotcharre, and me sit around Bacmudsorak in its common default
mode, that of a tabletop. We did not session, however. We played five-card
stud, praying that no one would piss Ztang off again. Once, Lotcharre laid
down his best hand with a loud slap, but our rebuking looks dissuaded him
from taking the pot.

When we finally arrived on the ztun home world, the ztun stunned us
again by canceling their reeducation programs. I went to work as a
consultant to the producers of a mass entertainment about armed conflict,
whom I introduced to the transgressive pleasures of gunplay and sensa-
tional explosions. We had so many pods, flowers, and stems flying around
the set that you would have thought we were using a Salad Shooter.

The next day the director fired me, and I went into full-time begging
mode, asking the government for return passage to Earth. Eventually, the
Powers That Be relented and by light cruiser sent me home.

Here on Earth, everything had changed, and changed again. Even so,
my fellow Western Hemispherites took me to their bosoms and appointed
me to direct their Self-Defense Legions. The Easties soon picked a fight,
and tomorrow an all-out war will likely begin. Still, but for the unfortu-
nate angst of God, I could say, "Life is good, my compatriots," for I have
work to do, a pet man-o'-war in my heated swimming pool, and a garden
lull of outsized purple hollyhocks.

— for George Alec Effinger

In addition to the dozen stories she has contributed to our pages, M. Rickert has
also published stories in The Ontario Review, Ideomancer, and Rabid Transit, as
well as reprints in several “Year’s Best” anthologies. About this new story, she
says that if you drive around and around in upstate New York, if you seek it
without seeking it, you might — might — after many years find a museum that
resembles the one described in this story. ..but the rest of this tale of purely a
product of the author's imagination.

Cold Fires

By M. Rickert

I T WAS SO COLD THAT

daggered ice hung from the eaves
with dangerous points that broke off
and speared the snow in the after-
noon Sun, only to be formed again the next morning. Snowmobile shops
and ski rental stores, filled with brightly polished snowmobiles and helmets
and skis and poles and wool knitted caps and mittens with stars stitched
on them and down jackets and bright-colored boots stood frozen at the
point of expectation when that first great snow fell on Christmas night and
everyone thought that all that was needed for a good winter season was a good
winter snow, imtil the cold reality set in and the employees munched
popcorn or played cards in the back room because it was so cold that no
one even wanted to go shopping, much less ride a snowmobile. Cars didn't
start but heaved and ticked and remained solidly immobile, stalagmites
of ice holding them firm. Motorists called Triple A and Triple A's phone
lines became so crowded they routed the calls to a trucking company in
Pennsylvania where a woman with a very stressed voice answered the
calls with the curt suggestion that the caller hang up and dial again.

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

It was so cold dogs barked to go outside, and immediately barked to
come back in, and then barked to go back out again; frustrated dog owners
leashed their pets and stood shivering in the snow as shivering dogs lifted
icy paws, walking in a kind of Irish dance, spinning in that dog circle thing,
trying to find the perfect spot to relieve themselves while dancing high
paws to keep from freezing to the ground.

It was so cold birds fell from the sky like tossed rocks, frozen except
for their tiny eyes which focused on the Sun as if trying to understand its
betrayal.

That night the ice hung so heavy from the power lines that they could
no longer maintain the electric arc and the whole state went black,
followed within the hour by the breakdown of the phone lines. Many
people would have a miserable night but the couple had a wood-burning
stove. It crackled with flame that bit the dry and brittle birch and
consumed the chill air where even in the house they had been wearing
coats and scarves that they removed as the hot aura expanded. It was a
good night for soup, heated on the cast iron stove and scenting the whole
house with rosemary and onion; a good night for wine, the bottle of red
they bought on their honeymoon and had been saving for a special
occasion, and it was a good night to sit by the stove on the floor, their backs
resting against the couch pillows, watching the candles flicker in the
waves of heat while the house cracked and heaved beneath its thick iced
roof. They decided to tell stories, the sort of stories that only the cold and
the fire, the wind and the silent dark combined could make them tell.

"I grew up on an island," she said, "well, you know that. I've already
told you about the smell of salt and how it still brings the sea to my breath,
how the sound of bathwater can make me weep, how before the birds fell
from the sky like thrown rocks, the dark arc of their wings, in certain light,
turned white and how certain tones of metal, a chain being dragged by a
car, a heavy pan that clangs against its lid become the sound of ships and
boats leaving the harbor. I've already told you all that, but I think you
should know that my family is descended from pirates, we are not decent
people, everything we own has been stolen, even who we are, my hair for
instance, these blonde curls can be traced not to any relatives for they are
all dark and swarthy but to the young woman my great-great-grandfather
brought home to his wife, intended as a sort of help-mate but apparently

COLD FIRES

101

quite worthless in the kitchen, though she displayed a certain fondness for
anything to do with strawberries, you understand the same fruit I embrace
for its short season, oh how they taste of summer, and my youth!

"Now that I have told you this, I may as well tell you the rest. This
blonde maid of my great-great-grandfather's house, who could not sew, or
cook, or even garden well but who loved strawberries as if they gave her
life, became quite adept at rejecting any slightly imperfect fruit. She
picked through the bowls that Great-great-Grandmother brought in from
the garden and tossed those not perfectly swollen or those with seeds too
coarse to the dogs who ate them greedily then panted at her feet and
became worthless hunters, so enamored were they with the sweet. Only
perfect berries remained in the white bowl and these she ate with such a
manner of tongue and lips that Great-great-Grandfather who came upon
her like that, once by chance and ever after by intention, sitting in the Sun
at the wooden kitchen table, the dogs slathering at her feet, sucking
strawberries, ordered all the pirates to steal more of the red fruit which he
traded unreasonably for until he became quite the laughingstock and the
whole family was in ruin.

"But even this was not enough to bring Great-great-Grandfather to his
senses and he did what just was not done in those days and certainly not
by a pirate who could take whatever woman he desired — he divorced
Great-great-Grandmother and married the strawberry girl who, it is said,
came to her wedding in a wreath of strawberry ivy, and carried a bouquet
of strawberries from which she plucked, even in the midst of the sacred
ceremony, red bulbs of fruit which she ate so greedily that when it came
time to offer her assent she could only nod and smile bright red lips the
color of sin.

"The strawberry season is short and it is said she grew pale and weak
in its waning. Great-great-Grandfather took to the high seas and had many
adventures, raiding boats where he passed the gold and coffers of jewels,
glanced at the most beautiful woman and glanced away (so that later, after
the excitement had passed, these same woman looked into mirrors to see
what beauty had been lost) and went instead, quite eagerly, to the kitchen
where he raided the fruit. He became known as a bit of a kook.

"In the meantime, the villagers began to suspect that the strawberry
girl was a witch. She did not appreciate the gravity of her situation but

102

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

continued to visit Great-great-Grandmother's house as if the other woman
was her own mother and not the woman whose husband she had stolen.
It is said that Great-great-Grandmother sicced the dogs on her but they
saw the blonde curls and smelled her strawberry scent and hcked her
fingers and toes and came back to the house with her, tongues hanging out
and grinning doggedly at Great-great-Grandmother who, it is said, then
turned her back on the girl who was either so naive or so cunning that she
spoke in a rush about her husband's long departures, the lonely house on
the hill, the dread of coming winter, a perfect babble of noise and nonsense
that was not affected by Great-great-Grandmother's cold back until, the
villagers said, the enchantment became perfect and she and Great-great-
Grandmother were seen walking the cragged hills to market days as happy
as if they were mother and daughter or two old friends and perhaps this is
where it would have all ended, a confusion of rumor and memory, were it
not for the strange appearance of the rounded bellies of both women and
the shocking news that they both carried Great-great-Grandfather's child
which some said was a strange coincidence and others said was some kind
of trick.

"Great-great-Grandfather's ship did not return when the others did
and the other pirate wives did not offer this strawberry one any condo-
lences. He was a famous seaman, and it was generally agreed that he had
not drowned, or crashed his ship at the lure of sirens, but had simply
abandoned his witchy wile.

"All that winter Great-great-Grandfather's first and second wives
grew suspiciously similar bellies, as if size were measured against size to
keep an even girth. At long last the strawberry wife took some minor
interest in hearth and home and learned to bake bread that Great-great-
Grandfather's wife said would be more successfully called crackers, and
soup that smelled a bit too ripe but which the dogs seemed to enjoy.
During this time Great-great-Grandmother grew curls, and her lips,
which had always seemed a mastless ship anchored to the plane of her
face, became strawberry shaped. By spring when the two were seen
together, stomachs returned to corset size, and carrying between them a
bald, blue-eyed baby, they were often mistaken for sisters. The villagers
even became confused about which was the witch and which, the be-
witched.

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103

"About this time, in the midst of a hushed ongoing debate amongst
the villagers regarding when to best proceed with the witch burning (after
the baby, whose Uneage was uncertain, had been weaned seemed the
general consensus) Great-great-Grandfather returned and brought with
him a shipload of strawberries. The heavy scent drove the dogs wild.
Great-great-Grandfather drove the villagers mad with strawberries and
then, when the absolute height of their passion had been aroused, stopped
giving them away and charged gold for them, a plan that was whispered in
his ears by the two wives while he held his baby who sucked on
strawberries the way other babies sucked on tits.

"In this way, Great-great-Grandfather grew quite rich and built a
castle shaped like a ship covered in strawberry vines and with a room at
the back, away from the sea, which was made entirely of glass and housed
strawberries all year. He lived there with the two wives and the baby
daughter and nobody is certain who is whose mother in our family line.

"Of course she did not stay but left one night, too cruel and heartless
to even offer an explanation. Great-great-Grandfather shouted her name
for hours as if she was simply lost until, at last, he collapsed in the
strawberry room, crushing the fruit with his large body and rolling in the
juice imtil he was quite red with it and frightening as a wounded animal.
His first wife found him there and steered him to a hot bath. They learned
to live together again without the strawberry maid. Strangers who didn't
know their story often commented on the love between them. The
villagers insisted they were both bewitched, the lit candles in the window
to guide her return given as evidence. Of course she never did come back. "

Outside in the cold night, even the Moon was frozen. It shed a white
light of ice over their pale yard and cast a ghost glow into the living room
that haunted her face. He studied her as if she were someone new in his
life and not the woman he'd known for seven years. Something about that
moonglow combined with the firelight made her look strange, like a
statue at a revolt.

She smiled down at him and cocked her head. "I tell you this story,"
she said, "to explain if ever you should wake and find me gone, it is not
an expression of lack of affection for you, but rather, her witchy blood that
is to be blamed."

"What became of her?"

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Oh, no one knows. Some say she had a lover, a pirate from a nearby
cove, and they left together, sailing the seas for strawberries. Some say she
was an enchanted mermaid and returned to the sea. Some say she came to
America and was burned at the stake."

"Which do you think is true?"

She leaned back and sighed, closing her eyes. "I think she's still
alive," she whispered, "breaking men's hearts, because she is insatiable."

He studied her in repose, a toppled statue while everything burned.

"Now it's your turn," she said, not opening her eyes, and sounding
strangely distant. Was that a tear at the comer of her eye? He turned away
from her. He cleared his throat.

"All right then. For a while 1 had a job in Castor, near Rhome, in a
small art museum there. 1 was not the most qualified for the work but
apparently I was the most qualified who was willing to live in Castor,
population 954, 1 kid you not. It was a nice little collection, actually. Most
of the population of Castor had come through to view the paintings at least
once but it was my experience they seemed just as interested in the
carpeting, the light fixtures, and the quantity of fish in the river as they
were in the work of the old masters. Certainly the museum never saw the
kind of popular attention the baseball field hosted, or the bowling lanes
just outside of town.

"What had happened was this. In the 1930s Emile Castor, who had
made his fortune on sweet cough drops, had decided to build a fishing
lodge. He purchased a beautiful piece of forested property at the edge of
what was then a small community, and built his 'cabin,' a six-bedroom,
three-bath house with four stone hearth fireplaces and large windows that
overlooked the river in the backyard. Even though Castor had blossomed
to a population of nearly a thousand by the time I arrived, deer still came
to drink from that river.

"When Emile Castor died in 1989, he stated in his will that the house
be converted into a museum to display his private collection. He be-
queathed all his estate to the support of this project. Of course, his
relatives, a sister, a few old cousins, and several nieces and nephews,
contested this for years, but Mr. Castor was a thorough man and the
legalities were tight as a rock. What his family couldn't understand, other
than, of course, what they believed was the sheer cruelty of his act, was

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105

where this love of art had come from. Mr. Castor, who fished and hunted
and was known as something of a ladies' man (though he never married),
smoked cigars (chased by lemon cough drops), and built his small fortune
on his 'mascuhne attitude,' as his sister referred to it in an archived letter.

"The kitchen was subdivided. A wall was put up which cut an ugly
line right down the middle of what had once been a large picture window
that overlooked the river. Whoever made this decision and executed it so
poorly was certainly no appreciator of architecture. It was ugly and
distorted and an insult to the integrity of the place. What remained of the
original room became the employee kitchen: a refrigerator, a stove, a large
sink, marble countertops, and a tiled mosaic floor. A small stained glass
window by Chagall was set beside the remaining slice of larger window.
It remained, in spite of the assault it suffered, a beautiful room, and an
elaborate employee kitchen for our small staff.

"The other half of the kitchen was now completely blocked off and
inaccessible other than by walking through the employee kitchen. That,
combined with the large window which shed too much light to expose any
works of art to, had caused this room to develop into a sort of oversized
storage room. It was a real mess when I got there.

"The first thing I did was sort through all that junk, unearthing boxes
of outdated pamphlets and old stationery, a box of old toilet paper and
several boxes of old Castor photographs which I carried to my office to be
catalogued and preserved. After a week or so of this I found the paintings,
box after box of canvasses painted by an amateur hand, quite bad, almost
at the level of a school child, without a child's whimsy, and all of the same
woman. I asked Darlene, who acted as bookkeeper, ticket taker, and town
gossip what she thought of them.

"'That must be Mr. Castor's work,' she said.

"'I didn't know he painted.'

"'Well he did, you can see for yourself. Folks said he was nuts about
painting out here. Are they all like these?'

"'More or less.'

"'Should have stuck to cough drops,' she pronounced. (This from a
woman who once confided in me her absolute glee at seeing a famous
jigsaw puzzle, glued and framed, hanging in some restaurant in a nearby
town.)

106

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"When all was said and done we had fifteen boxes of those paintings
and I decided to hang them in the room that was half of what had once been
a magnificent kitchen. Few people would see them there, and that seemed
right; they really were quite horrid. The sunlight could cause no more
damage than their very presence already exuded.

"When they were at last all hung, I counted a thousand, various
shapes and sizes of the same dark-haired, gray-eyed lady painted in various
styles, the deep velvet colors of Renaissance, the soft pastel hues of
Baroque, some frightening bright green reminiscent of Matisse, and
strokes that swirled wildly from imitation of van Gogh to the thick direct
lines of a grade schooler. I stood in the waning evening light staring at this
grotesquerie, this man's art, his poor art, and I must admit I was moved by
it. Was his love any less than that of the artist who painted well? Some
people have talent. Some don't. Some people have a love that can move
them like this. One thousand faces, all imperfectly rendered, but at-
tempted nonetheless. Some of us can only imagine such devotion.

"I had a lot of free time in Castor. I don't like to bowl. I don't care for
greasy hamburgers. I have never been interested in stock car racing or
farming. Let's just say I didn't really fit in. I spent my evenings cataloguing
Emile Castor's photographs. Who doesn't like a mystery? I thought the
photographic history of this man's life would yield some clues about the
object of his affection. I was quite excited about it actually, until I became
quite weary with it. You can't imagine what it's hke to look through one
man's life like that, family, friends, trips, beautiful women (though none
were her). The more I looked at them, the more depressed I grew. It was
clear Emile Castor had really lived his life and I, I felt, was wasting mine.
Well, I am given to fits of melancholy, as you well know, and such a fit
rooted inside me at this point. I could not forgive myself for being so
ordinary. Night after night I stood in that room of the worst art ever
assembled in one place and knew it was more than I had ever attempted,
the ughness of it all somehow more beautiful than anything I had ever
done.

"I decided to take a break. I asked Darlene to come in, even though she
usually took weekends off, to oversee our current high school girl, Eileen
something or other, who seemed to be working through some kind of
teenage hormonal thing because every time I saw her she appeared to have

COLD FIRES

107

just finished a good cry. She was a good kid, I think, hut at the time she
depressed the hell out of me. 'She can't get over what happened between
her and Randy,' Darlene told me. 'The abortion really shook her up. But
don't say anything to her parents. They don't know.'

"'Darlene, I don't want to know.'

"Eventually it was settled. I was getting away from Castor and all
things Castor related. I'd booked a room in a B&.B in Sundale, on the shore.
My duffel bag was packed with two novels, plenty of sunscreen, shorts and
swimwear and flip-flops. I would sit in the Sun. Walk along the shore.
Swim. Read. Eat. I would not think about Emile Castor or the gray-eyed
woman. Maybe I would meet somebody. Somebody real. Hey, anything
was possible now that I was getting away from Castor.

"Of course it rained. It started almost as soon as I left town and at
times the rain became so heavy that I had to pull over on the side of the
road. When I finally got to the small town on the shore I was pretty wiped
out. I drove in circles looking for the ironically named 'Sunshine Bed and
Breakfast' until in frustration at the eccentricity of small towns, I decided
that the pleasant-looking house with the simple sign 'B&B' must be it. I
sat in the car for a moment hoping the rain would give me a break, and
craned my neck at the distant looming steeple of a small chapel on the cliff
above the roiling waters.

"It was clear the rain would continue its steady torrent, so I grabbed
my duffel bag and slopped through the puddles in a sort of half trot, and
entered a pleasant foyer of classical music, overstuffed chairs, a wide-eyed
calico asleep in a basket on a table and a large painting of, you probably
already guessed, Emile Castor's gray-eyed beauty. Only in this rendition
she really was. Beautiful. This artist had captured what Emile had not. It
wasn't just a portrait, a photograph with paint if you will, no, this
painting went beyond its subject's beauty into the realm of what is
beautiful in art. I heard footsteps, deep breathing, a cough. I turned
with reluctance and beheld the oldest man I'd ever seen. He was a lace of
wrinkles and skin that sagged from his bones like an ill-fitting suit. He
leaned on a walking stick and appraised me with gray eyes almost lost in
the fold of wrinkles.

"'A beautiful piece of work,' I said.

"He nodded.

108

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"I introduced myself and after a few confused minutes discovered that
I was neither in Sundale nor at the Sunshine BStB. But I could not have
been more pleased on any sunny day, in any location, than I was there,
especially when I found out I could stay the night. When I asked about the
painting and its subject, Ed, as he told me to call him, invited me to join
him in the parlor for tea after I had "settled in."

"My room was pleasant, cozy and clean without the creepy assort-
ment of teddy bears too often assembled in B&Bs. From the window I had
a view of the roiling sea, gray waves, the mournful swoop of seagulls and
the cliff with the white chapel, its tall steeple tipped, not with a cross, but
a ship, its great sails unfurled.

"When I found him in the parlor, Ed had a tray of tea and cookies set
out on a low table before the fireplace which was nicely ablaze. The room
was pleasant and inviting. The cold rain pounded the windows but inside
it was warm and dry, the faint scent of lavender in the air.

'"Come, come join us.' Ed waved his hand, as arthritic as any I've ever
seen, gnarled to almost a paw. I sat in the green wing chair across from
him. An overstuffed rocking chair made a triangle of our seating arrange-
ment but it was empty; not even the cat sat there.

"'Theresa!' he shouted, and he shouted again in a loud voice that
reminded me of the young Marlon Brando calling for Stella.

"It occurred to me he might not be completely sane. But at the same
moment I thought this I heard a woman's voice and the sound of footsteps
approaching from the other end of the house. I confess that for a moment
I entertained the notion that it would be the gray-eyed woman, as if I had
fallen into a Brigadoon of sorts, a magical place time could not reach, all
time-ravaged evidence on Ed's face to the contrary.

"Just then that old face temporarily lost its wrinkled look and took on
a divine expression. I followed the course of his gaze and saw the oldest
woman in the world entering the room. I rose from my seat.

"'Theresa,' Ed said, "'Mr. Delano of Castor.'

"I strode across the room and offered my hand. She slid into it a small
soft glove of a hand and smiled at me with green eyes. She walked
smoothly and with grace but her steps were excruciatingly small and slow.
To walk beside her was a lesson in patience, as we traversed the distance
to Ed who had taken to pouring the tea with hands that quivered so badly

COLD FIRES

109

the china sounded like wind chimes. How had these two survived so long?
In the distance, a cuckoo sang and I almost expected I would hear it again
before we reached our destination.

"'Goodness,' she said, when I finally stood beside the rocking chair,
"I've never known a young man to walk so slowly.' She sat in the chair
swiftly, and without any assistance on my part. I realized she'd been
keeping her pace to mine as I thought I was keeping mine to hers. I turned
to take my own seat and Ed grinned up at me, offering in his quivering
hand, a chiming tea and saucer, which I quickly took.

"'Mr. Delano is interested in Elizabeth,' Ed said as he extended
another jangling cup and saucer to her. She reached across and took it,
leaning out of the chair in a manner I thought unwise.

"'What do you know about her?' she asked.

"'Mr. Emile Castor has made several, many, at least a thousand
paintings of the same woman but nothing near to the quality of this one.
That's all I know. I don't know what she was to him. I don't know
anything.'

"Ed and Theresa both sipped their tea. A look passed between them.
Theresa sighed. 'You tell him, Ed.'

"'It begins with Emile Castor arriving in town, a city man clear
enough in his red roadster and with a mustache.'

"'But pleasant.'

"'He knew his manners.'

"'He was a sincerely pleasant man.'

"'He drove up to the chapel and like the idiot he mostly was, turns his
back on it and sets up his easel and begins to try to paint the water down
below.'

"'He wasn't an idiot. He was a decent man, and a good businessman.
He just wasn't an artist.'

"'He couldn't paint water either.'

"'Well, water's difficult.'

"'Then it started to rain.'

"'You seem to get a lot.'

"'So finally he realizes there's a church right behind him and he packs
up his puddle of paints and goes inside.'

"'That's when he sees her.'

110

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"'Elizabeth?'

"'No. Our Lady. Oh, Mr. Delano, you really must see it.'

"'Maybe he shouldn't.'

"'Oh, Edward, why shouldn't he?'

"Edward shrugs. 'He was a rich man so he couldn't simply admire her
without deciding that he must possess her as well. That's how the rich are.'
"'Edward, we don't know Mr. Delano's circumstances.'

"'He ain't rich.'

"'Well, we don't really — '

"'All you gotta do is look at his shoes. You ain't, are you?'

"'No.'

"'Can you imagine being so foolish you don't think nothing of trying
to buy a miracle?'

"'A miracle? No.'

"'Well, that's how rich he was.'

"'He stayed on while he tried to convince the church to sell it to him.'
"'Idiot.'

"'They fell in love.'

"Ed grunted.

"'They did. They both did.'

"'He offered a couple a barrels full of money.'

"'For the painting.'

"'I gotta say I do believe some on the church board wavered a bit but
the women wouldn't hear of it.'

"'She is a miracle.'

"'Yep, that's what all the women folk said.'

"'Edward, you know it's true. More tea, Mr. Delano?'

"'Yes. Thank you. I'm not sure I'm following....'

"'You haven't seen it yet, have you?'

"'Theresa, he just arrived.'

"'We saw some of those other paintings he did of Elizabeth.'

"Ed snorts.

"'Well, he wasn't a quitter, you have to give him that.'

"Ed bites into a cookie and glares at the teapot.

"'What inspired him, well, what inspired him was Elizabeth but what
kept him at it was Our Lady.'

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111

'"So are you saying, do you mean to imply that this painting, this Our
Lady is magical?'

"'Not magic, a miracle.'

"'I'm not sine I understand.'

"'It's an icon, Mr. Delano, surely you've heard of them?'

"'Well, supposedly an icon is not just a painting, it is the holy
manifested in the painting, basically.'

"'You must see it. Tomorrow. After the rain stops.'

"'Maybe he shouldn't.'

"'Why do you keep saying that, Edward? Of course he should see it.'
"Ed just shrugged.

"'Of course we didn't sell it to him and over time he stopped asking.
They fell in love.'

"'He wanted her instead.'

"'Don't make it sound like that. He made her happy during what none
of us knew were the last days of her life.'

"'After she died, he started the paintings.'

"'He wanted to keep her alive.'

"'He wanted to paint an icon.'

"'He never gave up until he succeeded. Finally, he painted our
Elizabeth.'

"'Are you saying Emile Castor painted that, in the foyer?'

"'It took years.'

"'He wanted to keep her alive somehow.'

"'But that painting, it's quite spectacular and his other work is so — "
"'Lousy.'

"'Anyone who enters this house wants to know about her.'

"'I don't mean to be rude, but how did she. I'm sorry, please excuse

"'Die?'

'"It doesn't matter.'

"'Of course it does. She fell from the church cliff. She'd gone up there
to light a candle for Our Lady, a flame of gratitude. Emile had proposed and
she had accepted. She went up there and it started raining while she was
inside. She slipped and fell on her way home.'

"'How terrible.'

112

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

"'Oh yes, but there are really so few pleasant ways to die.'

"Our own rain still lashed the windows. The fat calico came into the
room and stopped to lick her paws. We just sat there, listening to the rain
and the clink of china cup set neatly in saucer. The tea was good and hot.
The fire smelled strangely of chocolate. I looked at their two old faces in
profile, wrinkled as poorly folded maps. Then I proceeded to make a fool
of myself by explaining to them my position as curator of the Castor
museum. I described the collection, the beautiful house and location by
a stream visited by deer (but I did not describe the dismal town) and ended
with a description of Emile's horrible work, the room filled with poor
paintings of their daughter, surely, I told them, Elizabeth belonged there,
redeemed against the vast assortment of clowns, for the angel she was.
When I was finished the silence was sharp. Neither spoke nor looked at
me, but even so, as though possessed by some horrible tic, I continued. 'Of
course we'd pay you handsomely.' Theresa bowed her head and I thought
that perhaps this was the posture she took for important decisions until
I realized she was crying.

"Ed turned slowly, his old head like a marionette's on an uncertain
string. He fixed me with a look that told me what a fool I was and will
always be.

"'Please accept my apology for being so....' I said, finding myself
speaking and rising as though driven by the same puppeteer's hand. 'I can't
tell you how. . . . Thank you.' I turned abruptly and walked out of the room,
angry at my clumsy social skills, in despair actually, that I had made a
mess of such a pleasant afternoon. I intended to hurry to my room and read
my book until dinner when I would skulk down the stairs and try to find
a decent place to eat. That I could insult and hurt two such kind people was
unforgivable. I was actually almost blind with self-loathing until I entered
the foyer and saw her out of the comer of my eye.

"It is really quite impossible to describe that other thing that brings
a painting beyond competent, even beyond beauty into the realm of great
art. Of course she was a beautiful woman,- of course the lighting, colors,
composition, bmshstroke, all of these elements could be separated and
described, but this still did not account for that ethereal feeling, the sense
one gets standing next to a masterpiece, the need to take a deep breath as
if suddenly the air consumed by one is needed for two.

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113

"Instead of going upstairs, I went out the front door. If this other
painting was anything like the one of Elizabeth, then I must see it.

"It was dark, the rain only a drizzle now, the town a slick black oil,
maybe something by Dali with disappearing ink. I had, out of habit,
pocketed my car keys. I had to circle the town a few times, make a few false
starts, once finding myself in someone's driveway, before I selected the
road that arched above the town to the white chapel, which even in the
rain glowed as though lit from within. The road was winding but not
treacherous. When I got to the top and stood on that cliff the wind whipped
me, the town below was lost in a haze of fog that only a few yellow lights
shone through. I had the sensation of looking down on the heavens from
above. The waves crashed and I felt the salt on my face, tasted it on my lips.
Up close the chapel was much larger than it looked from below, the
steeple that narrowed to a needle point on which its ship balanced into the
dark sky, quite imposing. As I walked up those stone steps I thought again
of Edward saying he wasn't sure I should see it. I reached for the hammered
iron handle and pulled. For a moment I thought it was locked, but it was
just incredibly heavy. 1 pulled the door open and entered the darkness of
the church. Behind me, the door heaved shut. I smelled a flowery smoky
scent, the oily odor of wood, and heard from somewhere a faint drip of
water as though there was a leak. I was in the church foyer, there was
another door before me, marked in the darkness by the thin line of light
that shone beneath it. I walked gingerly, uncertain in the dark. It too was
extremely heavy. I pulled it open."

He coughed and cleared his throat as though suddenly suffering a cold.
She opened her eyes just a slit. The heat from the wood stove must have
been the reason for the red in his cheeks, how strange he looked, as though
in pain or fever! She let her eyes droop shut and it seemed a long time
before he continued, his voice raspy.

"All I can say is, I never should have looked. I wish I'd never seen
either of those paintings. It was there that I made myself the promise I
would never settle for a love any less than spectacular, a love so great that
it would take me past my limitations, the way Emile's love for Elizabeth
had taken him past his, that somehow such a love would leave an imprint
on the world, the way great art does, that all who saw it would be changed
by it, as I was.

114

FANTASY «>, SCIENCE FICTION

"So you see, when you find me sad and ask what's on my mind, or
when I am quiet and cannot explain to you the reason, there it is. If I had
never seen the paintings, maybe I would be a happy man. But always, now,
I wonder."

She waited but he said no more. After a long time, she whispered his
name. But he did not answer and when she peeked at him from the squint
of her eyes, he appeared to be asleep. Eventually, she fell asleep too.

All that night, as they told their stories, the flames burned heat onto
that icy roof which melted down the sides of the house and over the
windows so that in the cold morning when they woke up, the fire gone to
ash and cinder, the house was encased in a sort of skin of ice which they
tried to alleviate by burning another fire, not realizing they were only
sealing themselves in more firmly. They spent the rest of that whole
winter in their ice house. By burning all the wood and most of the furniture
and eating canned food even if it was out of date, they survived, thinner
and less certain of fate, into a spring morning thaw, though they never
could forget those winter stories, not all that spring or summer and
especially not that autumn, when the winds began to carry that chill in the
leaves, that odd combination of Sun and decay, about which they did not
speak, but which they knew would exist between them forever.

Lost Touch with Reality?

“At some point his theory becomes so abstract it can only
be conveyed using interpretive dance.”

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Films

KATHI MAIO

THE TOWN HOLLYWOOD
COULDN’T FORGET

HERE ARE sto-

I ries that are time-

I less and others that

are timely. The
former tend to get more respect, but
I've never understood why. Predi-
cating a narrative upon "classic"
motifs and archetypal characters is
actually easier than painting a vivid
and insightful portrait of one's own
moment of time. Zeitgeist shifts so
rapidly, and since our 24/7 media-
society is always in a constant
frenzy of instant analysis and self-
parody, it is especially tricky to pull
off anything close to social satire.

When a writer or filmmaker
does capture the moment, it often
challenges the reader or viewer in
ways a timeless fable never could.
At that moment, it pushes people's
buttons forcefully. Years later,
someone who experiences the same
work might not have the same love
it/hate it gut reaction, might even

perceive the work as "dated," but
they can still appreciate the story as
a snapshot of the social landscape
of an earher time.

The Stepfoid Wives is such a
story. Whether Ira Levin was, as I
have heard, inspired by a trip to a
Disney theme park in the midst of
a relationship breakup, is beside
the point. His 1972 novella was
actually an ahead-of-the-curve
study of the male "backlash" men-
tality, even before the media had
put a name to the phenomenon.

In that slim horror tale, a col-
lege-educated young mother named
Joanna Eberhart moves to a pros-
perous Connecticut subiurb with her
husband and their two children. By
page two of the story, Joanna is
already alarmed by the obsessive
domesticity of the women in her
new community, so she pointedly
tells the Welcome Wagon lady and
town paper columnist that she is

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both a semi-professional photogra-
pher and a woman with interests in
"politics and in the Women's Lib-
eration movement." She claims that
her husband shares those interests.
And, indeed, Walter Eberhart ap-
pears to be a forward-thinking man
of his time.

But appearances are deceiving,
especially in gender politics. As one
by one the few other independently
minded women in Stepford are
transformed into floor-scrubbing
drones excessively and selflessly
devoted to the care and feeding of
their husbands' appetites and egos,
Joanna becomes increasingly suspi-
cious of the men of the town. As for
her own caring husband, she real-
izes too late that Walter is true to
type, but not to the flesh-and-blood
woman he married.

Those who didn't dismiss Mr.
Levin's slim story about a town of
replicant homemakers as a mean-
ingless potboiler often got a bit hot
and bothered about the social com-
mentary therein. He was accused of
being anti-male and conversely
charged with being anti-feminist. . .a
sure sign that he was indeed saying
something about gender relations
in the early seventies (even if no
one could quite figure out what
that something was).

Likewise a few souls were upset

with screenwriter William Gold-
man and director Bryan Forbes for
their relatively faithful screen ad-
aptation in 1975. Some were out-
raged that men were demonized in
the story. Others saw it as anti-
woman or, as Betty Friedan was
reported to have viewed it, a "rip-
off of the women's movement."
Either way, it was certainly a movie
of its time, naturalistic but creepy.
Katharine Ross played the long-
haired, doe-eyed hippie housewife
heroine fairly well. (Although with
her somewhat flat affect, her final
transformation was more a triumph
of costuming than acting.) As for
Peter Masterson (who later became
a journeyman director), he was al-
most too believable as a melan-
choly modem man who wonders
why he has to work so hard at a law
office and then come home and have
his wife hassle him about how he
should be sharing in the childcare
duties and housework, and how he
shouldn't exclude her from the fam-
ily decision-making.

William Goldman's screenplay
heightens the gender tension of
Levin's novel, and improves on the
suspense as well as the unsettling
shock of its ending. But neither he
nor director Forbes could make this
a timeless story. No, they made a
domestic horror film that is very

FILMS

117

much a picture of its very precise
seventies cultural moment.

Which makes you wonder why
the story has been tweaked and al-
tered and remade so many times in
the last almost thirty years.

First there was the mildly
amusing TV movie called Revenge
of the Stepfoid Wives. Although
the chief villain was still the digni-
fied but ominous head of the local
Men's Association, Diz (Arthur Hill,
taking over from big-screen coun-
terpart Patrick O'Neal), it was no
longer a tale of robotic replacement
wives. Presumably because they
were hoping for a more hopeful con-
clusion — or at least one that would
allow real women to take their re-
venge on male villainy — the first
remake altered the men's m.o.

Instead of automatronic sub-
stitutes, the local husbands opt for
mind control and pill-popping.
When TV producer and all-around
uppity gal Kaye Foster (pants- wear-
ing Sharon Gless) comes to Stepford
to profile the low-crime, low-di-
vorce suburban utopia for her TV
news magazine, she immediately
becomes suspicious. With the help
of a brash newcomer, Megan (Julie
Kavner), they investigate why ev-
ery woman in town seems to have a
thyroid condition that requires
them to take medication every

time a siren blasts throughout the
day.

Eventually, Megan is also trans-
formed into an uber-hausfrau
through a process that involves a
brainwashing device that looks sus-
piciously hke a pink salon hairdryer.
(At the end of the process, she's a
frilly clean-freak, but as you can
imagine, the fabulous Ms. Kavner
couldn't look like a Barbie, even
when she tries. ) At this point, Kaye's
main purpose is to save her new
friend from a fate worse than death,
which is to say, a wardrobe of long
gingham frocks and floppy hats.

Played as straight suspense.
Revenge of the Stepford Wives now
plays as an accidental comedy for
its loopy plot devices and bizarre
casting. (Would you believe Don
Johnson as Juhe Kavner's earnest
rookie cop husband? ) StUl, even this
odd sequel manages some inciden-
tal social pulse-taking, as it seems
to acknowledge that career women
are here to stay and that women
aren't nearly as easy to control as
men would hope.

Skipping over The Stepfoid
Children (1987), which is a varia-
tion about parental control instead
of gender relations, the next remake
was, you guessed it. The Stepfoid
Husbands (1996), a rather pathetic
inversion of the original story in

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

which a nasty social matron (dear
typecast Louise Fletcher) and her
psychologist crony help the women
of Stepford turn their immature,
sports- watching husbands into sen-
sitive guys who like to cuddle and
cook.

Laughable without being the
least bit fun, Husbands stars Donna
Mills as a career woman who loves
her very cranky, self -pitying hubby
(Michael Ontkean) just the way he
is. It is telling that the wife here is
totally non-complicit with the soft-
ening of her mate. When she finds
out about the abusive therapy and
psychotropic drugs that are being
used on her newly sympathetic guy,
she immediately tries to get him
out of town. The overall message
seems to be that real men truly
don't eat quiche and if they are ill-
tempered, rude to your friends, and
bounce a basketball in the house
incessantly, then that's the kind of
manly man you want to keep and
preserve.

If that TV flick says something
about the nineties, I shudder to
think what it is. All it said to me
was that the Stepford saga was com-
pletely bankrupt. Done. Due to be
permanently retired. But that's just
not the way in Hollywood.

Instead playwright, screen-
writer, and "female" film reviewer

for Premiere (under the pseudonym
Libby Gelman-Waxner), Paul Rud-
nick, joined forces with his In e?
Out helmer (and former Yoda and
Miss Piggy) Frank Oz to do yet an-
other big-screen version of The
Stepford Wives.

I'll give the duo points for real-
izing that there just wasn't a lot of
suspense left in the old yam. So
they moved away from nail-biting
horror and opted to make a brightly
colored cartoon of a social com-
edy.

If you had to make a new ver-
sion of The Stepford Wives, that
was certainly the way to go. But if
you were going to go in that direc-
tion, you needed to follow through
with more laughs, more bite, and
more gender insights than Rudnick
and Oz could muster.

Star power is present and ac-
coimted for. Nicole Kidman plays
the new Joanna, a brittle, slightly
maniacal TV executive with a tal-
ent for bmtal battle-of-the-sexes
reality programming. When she is
fired and has a breakdown, com-
plete with electroshock, her devoted
husband Walter (Matthew Brod-
erick) moves her and the two kids
to a gated community in Connecti-
cut — full of beautiful McMansions,
where the men all drive vintage
muscle cars and motorcycles, and

FILMS

119

the women all drive expensive
SUVs.

Fairly early on in the proceed-
ings, you realize that when it comes
to visual gags, this movie has it
going on. But it's all so superficial.
Set decoration, costuming, and
props do not a movie make. And
when it comes to deeper social in-
sights, or even deeper belly laughs,
this very good-looking film just
can't deliver the goods.

The most intriguing thing to
explore in a twenty-first-century
Stepfozd Wives might have been
women's ambivalence toward so-
cial power and familial relation-
ships. It's not always angry white
guys who want to keep women
down. These days, it might actually
be a deranged active "choice" by a
woman.

After all, from Fascinating
Womanhood to The Total Woman
to The Rules and the latest
preachings of Doctor Laura, male-
identified women have often done
the best job, in the last quarter cen-
tury, of undermining women's au-
tonomy. At a time when the media
bleats at women to return to the
home to happily care for their chil-
dren, "Extreme Makeover" shows
encourage us gals to nip and tuck
and enhance our way to interper-
sonal happiness, and shows like Sex

ei> the City seem to suggest that
even successful women should dress
like cotton-candy Barbies and tee-
ter through the lonely city streets
on very expensive, very high heels,
gender relations are a lot more com-
plicated. Yet still rife with deli-
cious fresh possibilities for social
satire. All of which are ignored by
the new Stepford Wives.

Oh, it turns out that there is a
woman behind the new Stepford
plot, but you get the feeling that
this was only done to offer a kooky
surprise in the final reel. And our
mastermind doesn't want to con-
trol or oppress, she just wants ev-
eryone to be happy. Why she
started by giving total fantasy-ful-
fillment only to the men is a little
unclear, as is much of the rest of
the movie.

As I've expressed to you many
times, a movie's failure to follow
its own internal logic is one of the
greatest sins a science fiction film
can commit. That being the case, it
is possible to dismiss Stepford Wives
as one of the most miserable fail-
ures of recent memory. It can't even
seem to make up its mind whether
the women of Stepford have been
replaced with robotics or not!

[Spoiler Alert] On the one
hand, the re-engineered wifies are
plainly portrayed as hots. They have

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

blow-up adjustable boobs, can put
their hand on a hot stovetop with-
out pain, and possess the ability to
double as an ATM. And if they
square-dance with too much en-
thusiasm, sparks come out of their
ears. Still, in the end, the movie
changes its mind and says that it
was all nothing more than a minor
chip implant.

Clearly, this was in service of
an upbeat ending. At some point
during the rewrite process the film-
makers decided that they wanted
their principal female players hap-
pily intact during the final coda. So,
they decided to make the rest of
their movie a lie.

The Stepfoid Wives is a miser-
able failure, it is true. It is the result
of too many test screenings and not
enough originality and commit-
ment on the part of the filmmakers.
The film is as fond of the Men's
Association cronies who literally
objectify their wives as it is of the

brassy women-who-do-too-much
they victimize. You get the feeling
that, above all else, this toothless
satire was striving not to offend a
single audience segment. In failing
to have a viewpoint, it ends up —
more than any previous Stepford
project — saying absolutely noth-
ing about its moment in time.

But what can I say? It is not a
total loss. Here and there, it man-
ages to entertain. And to see Bette
Midler, Glenn Close, and Christo-
pher Walken hamming it up through
a movie together. . .well, it's almost
enough to make it worth watching.
Almost.

As for this worn and tattered
tale of marital politics in a small
New England village, can we agree
that it is totally and completely
dead now? Over? Done? It's not
enough to hope. We need to be pro-
tected from the resurrection of
Stepford's undead. Somebody grab
a stake.

Two months ago, Mr. Reed provided us with an adventure tale concerning a young
Native American boy. Last month, he taught us new tricks for interior designers.
Nowhe brings us something entirely different and unpredictable (well, unpredict-
able for 16.7% of the market, that is).

And what else can we expect from Mr. Reed! A novel entitled A Well of
Stars is due out early next year — that much we can say. Will he make it four
consecutive months in F&SF^ That remains to be seen, but after this story, any
predictions about the future seem, well, impossible.

Opal Ball

By Robert Reed

S HE IS A PLAYER, LIKE CLIFF.

Like him, she is in her early thirties,
healthy and single. And like the best in
their profession, she is financially secure.
They meet entirely by chance, share a lazy dinner on a whim, and like
any two players left to themselves, talk endlessly about the future. Who
wins the next presidential race, and assuming her, will she win reelection?
When will the next alien transmission arrive, and what treasures, if any,
will it hold? (The GrokTrok signal still sits raw on everyone's mind.) Will
the world's stock markets continue their steady ascent, or will their gains
accelerate? "Accelerate," Cliff decides. But the graph is trimodal, she
reminds him; a persistent gloom-and-doom wager is riding on the pro-
longed plateau. Cliff asks what the Chinese will do about Tibet. She asks
what the U. S . will do with Free Alaska. They wonder if the Europa mission
will find life, and will the United Council fund the Alpha Centauri
mission, and when will the Sun finally extinguish its nuclear fuel. Then
with a wink and a sly little grin. Cliff predicts who is going to win the next
World Series.

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

That brings a hearty laugh from his new friend. Athletics have
adapted to the new circumstances; Players and teams are rigorously
balanced, while the fields of play have been made wildly chaotic. Each ball
has its own weight and distinct shape. Winds are generated on site, gusting
and swirling in random directions, while the grass grows and shrivels
according to its own whims, and the soil folds into little lumps in all the
worst places. With every modem sport, mles reward competitors with
enormous scores, and they punish with fat penalties, and predicting the
outcome of any game, much less the season, is impossible — which is the
only reason people still are willing to cheer for the home team.

Dinner is a joy, and it doesn't take any unique vision to see what
happens next. Hours later, lying beneath the perfumed sheets of his new
lover's home. Cliff relates his own history as a player: Teachers and his
own ego told him that he enjoyed a certain talent with science, so he began
there. But he predicted a rapid solution to the telemeres problem with life
expansion, and there is none. He wagered heavily on a quantum theory of
gravity that subsequently proved to be flawed. And he made a fool of
himself in deep-space astronomy, predicting no observable supernova in
the Milky Way for the next thirty years. Which seemed perfectly reason-
able, he points out, since stars explode infrequently and the last blast was
seen just six years before. But wiser souls — real scientists, devoted
hobbyists, and a multitude of crafty AIs — correctly assessed both the
historic record and the stellar actuarial tables. The recent supernova had
been decades behind schedule, and the next one could happen any time.
Eighteen months, to be exact. Suddenly money that Cliff had set on a
thirty-year shelf was yanked down and divided among wiser players.
Which wasn't awful news, of course. It wasn't all that much money, he
pretends. But Cliff's greatest failure — a genuine disaster — was his bold
prediction that the next alien transmission would come within the
newborn year, and it would prove as beneficial as the Sag Prime signal of
'37. Both wagers proved to be spectacular mistakes. The sky was silent for
the entire year, and then two days too late, the GrokTrok signal finally
arrived, bringing the good people of Earth nothing but a gloriously
colorful, highly detailed image of an alien's flower-like hind end, brazenly
displayed to the camera and to the universe at large.

That's how Cliff got into human prediction, at last. Here was a realm

OPAL BALL

123

with importance as well as important money, and no damned AIs to
compete against. ( "If machines ever master human dynamics, I'm sunk. " )
And better still, the young man had a genuine talent for seeing the
obvious. "Which of these ten houses would make me happiest? What new
activity or sport or hobby should I attempt? Which classic novel fits my
soul best? And what sort of man, or woman, should I marry? If I marry
anyone, of course." He read the questions on the public boards, and if any
tickled his interest, he examined the attached data tail. Biographies
begged to be studied, including images and deep glances into these not-so-
private lives. Certain questions interested him; who can say why? By
various means, he looked past the tail, investigating these distant lives by
every legal means. Then he looked again at the person asking for guidance,
listening to the play of the voice, observing the tilt of the head and the
nervous flicker of an arching eyebrow. That final gaze meant everything.
Did he know this soul well enough to offer help? And if so, how much did
he want to help? Five dollars' worth, or fifty? Or maybe a fat hundred?

"Prince Randolph was my crowning success," Cliff mentions.

"Truly?" his lover purrs, ignoring the graceless pun.

Being a thoroughly modem man, Randolph had asked the world,
"Which girl should I marry?" And the world responded with fascination
and fantastic sums of money. Half a dozen candidates were put on public
display. The prince's brief life was sliced open and examined in clinical
detail. Questions were posted on his public board, and he answered them
for everyone to see. Of course old lovers were sought out. A pleasant
mother and surly father offered a range of conflicting hopes and opinions.
Then Cliff, along with another billion others — a shared intellect scat-
tered across six continents, ten orbital cities, and the Moon — made their
final wagers.

"I was one of those billion," his lover admits.

No small coincidence, that.

Then she continues, mentioning, '"None of these girls are worth
marrying,' I told the prince."

Which was what Cliff had decided, too. "But I made this substantial
side wager, " he boasts. "Randolph would settle for happiness and a certain
woman twenty years his senior." And sure enough, six months later the
heir to the British throne married his one-time nanny, and Cliff was one

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

of the six hundred and two players who had seen the future the clearest.

In reward, he received a substantial share from a small ocean of
earnings.

"And guess what," his lover purrs. "So did I."

"No," he blurts. "Truly?"

"Truly," she says. Then from the darkness, she asks, "What do you
think it means, darling? Two great players coming together like this?"

HE FUTURE HAS ALWAYS been an opaque
I crystal. Shamans and popes have always seen the obvi-
I ous, predicting the seasons as well as the inevitabilities
of life and death. Then came science and computers,
creating experts trained in every narrow field, and the future was a little
less opaque. But even the most expert mind, armed with the finest tools,
is limited. Is hamstrung. Every mind is finite; bias kills the most gifted
visionary; and wishful thinking can do nothing but distort and then blind.
It wasn't until humans and their smartest machines began to place
wagers, risking money against tomorrow, that the future became a little
more knowable, and workable, and for the serious player, a source of
financial blood.

Without question, this is a Golden Age. With a multitude of eyes
peering into the great Opal Ball, the future is being revealed as never
before. And the world has never been as efficient or happy or half as
flexible. Which only stands to reason: Unbiased observers have a better
chance of predicting wars and economic downturns than do government
officials and stock market mavens. No matter how brilliant, the indi-
vidual is always dim next to the multitude. And no expert of souls and
society can give the same shrewd personal advice that is delivered by just
a few hundred busybodies looking at your little life.

Cliff is a stellar example:

He was an avid cyclist until strangers did an analysis of his body and
muscles, predicting that he'd prefer sculling across open water. It is an
obscure sport, and he had no previous interest. But sure enough, he
quickly became one of the top thousand scullers in the country, and
winning in any sport makes it into a thorough pleasure.

He believed that he adored Bach. But rock-and-roll from the last

OPAL BALL

125

century is his new favorite, thanks to a few hundred invited suggestions.

He always wore blue, but black and white are his natural colors, and
changing his wardrobe and the color of his hair has done wonders.

And now, purely by chance, the player-woman has come into his
perfect life.

Spent and happy, he drags himself home in the morning. But before
he finally sleeps, he turns to the public board, asking the entire world, "Is
this the woman meant for me?"

A twenty-four-hour window feels right.

Seed money can spark interest, which is why he places a thousand of
his own dollars on YES.

Then Cliff collapses in bed, sleeping hard till evening. And after a
quick shower and a stimulant stew, he dresses in black and white before
meeting his new love at what has already become their favorite restau-
rant.

Cliff's honest intention is to listen to the world. To hear its advice and
absorb it, acting on its shared wisdom. But he is also in love — utterly,
selfishly in love — and through the next night and into the morning hours,
he assumes that of course the world will answer with a resounding,
"YES."

Yet the world votes, "NO," with a ninety-two percent surety. "She is
not and will never be right for you."

Cliff is sitting at home that next morning, exhausted again and this
time feeling outraged. What to do, what to do? Finally, he decides to hide
the results, at least for the time being. But she is a player — a believer by
every measure — and of course she has already asked about Cliff and his
worthiness. And the Opal Ball has come to the same unbiased and
distinctly negative conclusion.

Her response is a quick and impulsive rage. She flings the stupid
results into his face, and she curses a thousand strangers, and in the next
breath, she declares, "Let's show them. Let's get married. And I mean right
now."

The ceremony seems quicker than the ninety seconds that it takes.

The consequences are instantly apparent, ugly and sad and inescap-
able. Their first fight lasts an entire day, incandescent words leaving
wounds not easily healed. And their last battle never ends. Even after the

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

divorce, she and Cliff trade blows and furious looks, and sometimes he
finds himself awake in the night, plotting the awful things that he could
do to this monster-woman who stole four months out of his otherwise
wondrous life.

Cliff vows: Never again will he doubt the advice of distant voices.

With the help of those voices, he remakes his wardrobe and appear-
ance. He lets them select a new larger home to serve his maturing needs.
Against every past interest, he takes up topiary gardening and holopainting.
And of course both hobbies are wonderful successes. Then he asks the
world, "Where should I go on a long vacation?" And a week later, he and
his new ocean-ready scull set off on a voyage down the Chilean coast.

While Cliff is busy fighting the stiff ocean currents, his ex-wife dies.

A phone call delivers the news. Later, he learns the ugly particulars.
Depressed and drunk, the woman posted her genetics and life history, and
then asked the world about her own future. The Opal Ball responded
instantly, showing her nothing that seemed overtly appealing. Small
victories in the game, brief relationships that always end badly, and a
growing tendency for black moods. So with pills and a length of razored
rope, she managed to save herself from years of obscurity and disappoint-
ment, and the half a hundred players who had predicted suicide quietly
pocketed their winnings.

Cliff feels embarrassingly happy for the first moment or two.

Then the sadness bears down, and he spends a full night sobbing
wildly, ashamed of his actions and his glaring failures.

In the morning, an AI attorney contacts him. Was Chff aware that a
three-month-old fetus currently sits in cold storage, and that he and the
dead woman are the parents?

The news is an enormous, numbing surprise.

"She conceived during your marriage," the machine explains. "The
abortion was apparently kept secret from you."

"What happens to it now?" Cliff blurts out.

The AI hands him a tiny freezer.

"Why did she do this?" he sputters.

"I'm no expert in human emotions, sir," the machine replies. "Thank
goodness."

OPAL BALL

127

She is bom six months later.

Cliff's first act has become a tradition: He places a picture of his
daughter and the usual genetic information on the public boards, and then
he prepares to ask the world, "What is this child's future?"

But at the last moment, his hand hesitates.

His will fails him.

Or it exceeds what he believed possible, perhaps.

Before the damage is done, he wipes the question off the board. Then
he returns to the new crib and peers into his child's eyes. Clearer than
opals, they are. Transparent as crystal, and lovely, and when he peers
inside them, every future seems real and assured, and lovely, and hers,
hers, hers. 'T

HllllllTiilllUiiiill

Daniel Abraham made his first appearance in our pages last December with
“Pagliacci's Divorce. ” He returns now with a contemporary fantasy story with a
dark streak running through it, dark enough that sensitive readers should be
forewarned this story contains adult themes and edgy material.

Mr. Abraham reports that he recently signed a contract to write four books
in what will be called the “Long Price’ quartet. The first novel, TheSadTrade, will
probably be out towards end of 2005.

Flat Diane

By Daniel Abraham

IS HANDS DIDN'T TREMBLE

as he traced his daughter. She lay on the
kitchen floor, pressing her back against
the long, wide, white paper he'd brought,
her small movements translated into soft scratching sounds where the cut
end tried to curl down into the floor. His pen moved along the horizons of
her body — here, where her wrist widened, and then each finger; down her
side; rounding the ball of her feet like the passage around the Cape of Good
Hope; up to where her wide shorts made it clear this wasn't a work of
pornography; then back down the other leg and around. When he came to
her spilling hair, he traced its silhouette rather than remain strictly
against her skin. He wanted it to look like her, and Diane had thick, curly,
gorgeous hair just like her mother had.

"fust almost done, sweetie," he said when she started to shift and
fidget. She quieted imtil the pen tip touched the point where it had started,
the circle closed. As he sat back, she jumped up to see. The shape was
imperfect — the legs ended in awkward thahdomide bulbs, the hair obscured
the long oval face, the lines of the tile were clear where the pen had jumped.

FLAT DLANE

129

Still.

"Okay," Ian said. "Now let's just put this on here, and then...."

"I want to write it," Diane said.

Diane was eight, and penmanship was new to her and a thing of pride.
Ian reached up to the table, took down a wooden ruler with a sharp metal
edge, and drew lines for his daughter to follow. He handed her the pen and
she himched over.

"Okay, sweetie. Write this. Ready?"

She nodded, her hair spilling into her face. She pushed it away
impatiently, a gesture of her mother's. Candice, who pushed a lot of things
away impatiently.

"Hi," Ian said, slowly, giving his daughter time to follow. "I'm Flat
Diane. My real girl, Diane Bursen, sent me out to travel for her. I can't
write because I'm only paper. Would you please send her a picture of us,
so she can see where I am and what adventures" (Ian stopped here to spell
the word out) "I'm having?"

Ian had to draw more lines on the other side of Flat Diane for the
mailing address, but Diane waited and then filled that out too, only
forgetting the zip code.

Together, they rolled Flat Diane thin and put her in a mailing tube,
capped the end with a white plastic lid, and sealed it with tape.

"Can we send Flat Diane to see Mommy?"

He could feel his reaction at the comers of his mouth. Diane's face fell
even before he spoke, her lower lip out, her brown eyes hard. Ian stroked
her hair.

"We will, sweetheart, fust as soon as she's ready to let us know where
we can mail things to her, we will."

Diane jerked away, stomped off to the living room, and turned on the
TV, sulking. Ian addressed the package to his mother in Scotland, since it
seemed unlikely that either of them would be able to afford a transatlantic
vacation anytime soon. When the evening news came on with its roster
of rapes and killings, he turned off the set, escorted his protesting daughter
through her evening rituals, tucked her into bed, and then went to his
room and lay sleepless until after midnight.

The photograph shows his mother, smiling. Her face is broader than

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FANTASY &. SCIENCE FICTION

he remembered it, the hair a uniform gray but not yet white. She holds Flat
Diane up, and behind them the half-remembered streets of Glasgow.

There is writing on the back in blue pen and a familiar hand:

Flat Diane arrived yesterday. I'm taking her to my favorite teahouse
this afternoon. It was designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh — one
of the best architects ever to come out of Glasgow, and the scones are
lovely. Tomorrow, we are going to work together. My love to Ian and
the real Diane.

Mother Bursen

Diane was elated, and Ian was both pleased that the plan was working
and saddened to realize how rare his daughter's elation had become. She
had insisted that the picture go with her to school, and while she promised
that she would care for it, Ian was anxious for it. It was precious,
irreplaceable, and therefore fragile.

After work, he went to collect her from her friend Kit's house, anxiety
for the picture still in the back of his mind.

"Today, " Kit's father Tohiro reported as they drank their ritual cup of
coffee, "everything was Scotland. How the people talk in Scotland. How
the tea is made in Scotland. Whether you have to share tables at restau-
rants in Scotland. Diane has become the expert in everything."

"It's my mother. She sent a picture."

"I saw. She told us about the... what? The drawing? Flat Diane? It's a
good idea."

"It gives her something to look forward to. And I wanted her to know
how many people there are looking out for her. I haven't much family in
the States. And with her mother gone...."

A cascade of thumps announced the girls as they came down the
stairs. Diane stalked into the kitchen, her brows furrowed, hair curled
around her head like a storm cloud. She went to her father, arms extended
in demand, and he lifted her familiar weight to his lap.

"I want to go home now," she said. "Kit's a butthead."

Ian grimaced an apology. Tohiro smiled — amused, weary — and
sipped his coffee.

"Okay, sweetie. Go get your coat, okay?"

FLAT DIANE

131

"I don't want my coat."

"Diane."

His tone was warning enough. She got down and, looking over her
shoulder once in anger at the betrayal of insisting on her coat, vanished
again. Ian sighed.

"She's just tired," Tohiro said. "Kit's the same way."

They drove home through a rising fog. Though it made Ian nervous,
driving when he couldn't quite make out what was coming, Diane only
chattered on, stringing together the events of her day with "and after and
after and. " No matter if no two facts led one to another — they were what
she had to say, and he listened half from weariness and half from love.

An accident of timers turned the lights on just as they pulled into the
driveway, as if someone were there to greet them. There was nothing in
the mailbox from Flat Diane. Or from Candice.

"Daddy?"

Ian snapped to, as if coming awake. Diane held the screen door open,
frowning at him impatiently. He couldn't say how long she'd been there,
how long he'd fallen into dim reverie.

"Sorry, sweetie," he said, pulling keys from his pocket, "fust got lost
in the fog a minute."

Diane turned, looking out at the risen gray. His daughter narrowed
her eyes, looking out into nothing.

"I like the fog," she said, delivering the pronouncement with the
weight of law. "It smells like Scotland."

And for a moment, it did.

T he photograph isn't really a photograph but
a color printout from an old printer, the ink shinier than
the paper it stains. On it. Flat Diane is unfurled between
a smiling couple. The man is thick, wide-lipped, graying
at the temple. He wears a yellow polo shirt and makes a thumbs-up with
the hand that isn't supporting Flat Diane. The woman is smaller, thinner.
Her smile is pinched. She only looks like her brother Ian around the eyes
and in the tilt of her nose.

Behind them is a simple living room, the light buttery yellow and
somehow dirty.

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The bottom of the page carries a message typed as part of the same
document:

Dear Ian and Diane,

Flat Diane is here with us in Dallas. She's just in time for
Valentine's Day. She's coming out to our special dinner with us
tonight at Carmine's Bistro — Italian food. Yum!

Hope everything's good with you. See you soon. Much love.

Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bobby

In two weeks, Diane would be nine. It was a foreign thought. So little
time seemed to have passed since her last birthday until he realized that
Candice hadn't quite left then. This, now, was his first birthday as both
of her parents. He had demanded the day off, and his manager had
acquiesced. He had arranged with the school to take her out for the day.
A movie, a day with him, and a party that night with all her friends. Kit's
parents Anna and Tohiro were helping to drive them all.

He knew he was overcompensating. He hoped it would be enough,
and not only for her. There was a loneliness in him that also had to be
appeased. Over the course of months, the traces of his wife — still his wife,
still only separated — had begun to erode. The last of her special
toothpaste used up; the pillows no longer smelling of her hair; the foods
that only she ate spoiled and thrown away. In their place were the toys
Diane didn't put away, the homework left half-done on the table, the
sugared breakfast cereals too sweet for Ian to enjoy except as candy.

But Diane's things were all part his — hers to enjoy, and his to
shepherd. Nothing had to be put away unless he said it did, nothing had
to be finished unless he insisted, nothing was too sweet, too empty, too
bad for you to be dinner except that Ian — big bad unreasonable mean
Daddy — said no. Daddy who, after all, couldn't even keep a wile.

It was Friday, and Kit was sleeping over. The girls were in the back —
in Diane's room — playing video games. Ian sat on the couch with a beer
sweating itself slick in his hand while a news magazine show told of a
child drowned in the bathtub by his mother. The place smelled of order-
out pizza and the perfume from the beauty salon toys that Kit brought
over; costume jewelry spread out on the carpet, glittering and abandoned.

FLAT DIANE

133

Ian's thoughts were pleasantly vague — the dim interest in the
tragedy playing out on the television, the nagging knowledge that he
would have to pretend to make the girls go to sleep soon (they would stay
up anyway), the usual pleasure of a week's work ended. Kit's shriek bolted
him half across the house before his mind quite understood what the
sound had been.

In the bedroom, the tableau. Kit sat inelegantly on the floor, her hand
to her cheek, her nose bloody. The controllers for the game box splayed
out, black plastic tentacles abandoned on the carpet; the electric music
still looping. And Diane, her hand still in a fist, but her eyes wide and
horrified.

"What in Christ's name is going on in here?" Ian demanded.

"Sh...she hit me," Kit began, her voice rising as the tears began. "I
didn't do anything and she just hit me."

"Diane?"

His daughter blinked and her gaze flickered at her friend, as if looking
for support. And then her own eyes filled.

"It was my turn," Diane said, defensively.

"So you hit her?"

"I was mad."

"I'm going home!" Kit howled, and bolted for the bathroom. Ian
paused for a half second, then scowled and went after the girl, leaving
Diane behind. Kit was in the bathroom, trying to stanch the blood with her
hand. Ian helped her, sitting her on the toilet with her head tipped back,
a wad of tissue pressed to her lip. The bleeding wasn't bad; it stopped
quickly. There was no blood on the girl's clothes. When he was sure it
wouldn't start again, he wetted a washcloth and wiped Kit's face gently,
the blood pinking the terrycloth.

Diane haunted the doorway, her dark eyes profound with confusion
and regret.

"I want to go home," Kit said when he had finished. Her small mouth
was pressed thin. Ian felt his heart bind. If Diane lost Kit, he'd lose Tohiro
and Anna. It was a fleeting thought, and he was ashamed of it the moment
it struck him.

"Of course," he said. "I'll take you there. But first I think Diane owes
you an apology."

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Diane was weeping openly, the tears gathering on her chin. Kit turned
to her, and Ian crossed his arms.

"I didn't mean to," Diane said. "It's just that when people get mad,
they hit each other sometimes."

"Diane, what are you thinking? Where did you get an idea like that?"

"Uncle Bobby does, when he's mad. He hits Aunt Harriet all the
time."

Ian felt his lips press thin.

"Really. And have you seen him hit her? Diane, have you seen Bobby
hit anyone, ever?"

Diane frowned, thinking, trying to remember something. The failure
emptied her.

"No."

"Did anyone tell you a story about Bobby hitting Harriet?"

Again the pause, and confusion deep as stone.

"No."

"And?"

Diane stared at him, her mouth half open, her eyes lost.

"I think the words we're looking for are 'I'm sorry,"' Ian said. It was
the way his father would have said it.

"I'm sorry, Kitty. I'm sorry. I thought...," and Diane shook her head,
held out her hands, palms up in a shrug that broke his heart. "I'm sorry,
Kitty. I won't do it again ever, I swear. Don't go home, okay?"

Kit, sullen, scowled at the white and blue tile at her feet.

"Please?" Diane said. He could hear in the softness of her voice how
much the word had cost. He paused, hoping that Kit would relent, that she
would simply take the blow and accept it, that she would believe that
Diane would never do it again.

'"Kay," Kit said. Ian's relief was palpable, and he saw it in Diane. His
daughter ran over, grabbed her friend's hand, pulled her out, back to the
room. Ian looked in on them. Diane was showering Kit with affection,
flattering her shamelessly, letting her play as many times as she cared to.
Diane was showing her belly . And it worked. Kit came back from the edge,
and they were best friends again.

He put them both to bed, making them promise unconvincingly not
to stay up talking, then went through the house, checking that the doors

FLAT DIANE

135

and windows were all locked, turning off the lights. He ended in the living
room, in the overstuffed chair he'd brought from his home when he and
Candice first became lovers. The cushions knew the shape of his back.
Sitting under a single lamp that was the only light in the house, he closed
his eyes for a moment and drank in silence. The book he was reading —
a police procedural set in New Orleans — lay closed on his knee. His body
was too tired to rest yet, his mind spun too fast by Diane and his isolation
and the endless stretch of working at his desk. When he finally did open
his book, the story of grotesque murder and alluring voodoo queens was
a relief.

Diane walked in on bare feet just as he was preparing to dog-ear the
page, check the girls, and crawl into bed. She crossed the room, walking
past the pool of light and receding for a moment into the darkness before
coming back to him. In her hand was the scrapbook he'd set aside for Flat
Diane. Without speaking, she crawled onto his lap, opened the book with
a creak of plastic and cheap glued spine, and took out the page they'd just
gotten. His sister, her husband. The meaty hand and sausage-thick thumb.
His sister's pinched smile. The filthy light.

"I don't want this one in here," Diane said, handing it to him. Her
voice was small, frightened. "I don't like Uncle Bobby."

"Okay, sweetie," he said, taking it from her.

She leaned against him now, her arms pressed into her chest, her
knees drawn up. He put his arms around her and rocked gently until they
were both near to sleep.

It was the moment, looking back, that he would say he understood
what Flat Diane had become.

There are over a dozen photographs in the book now, but this latest
addition commands its own page. In it, Candice is sitting at a simple
wooden table. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that even where it is
bound is thick as her forearm. Her eyes slant down at the corners, but her
skin is the same tone as Diane's, the oval face clearly the product of the
same blood. There is a spider plant hanging above her. The impression is
of melancholy and calm and tremendous intimacy. It is not clear who
operated the camera.

Flat Diane is in the chair beside her, folded as if she were sitting with

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her mother. A small, cartoon heart has been added to the paper, though it
is not clear by whom.

The real Diane has outstripped her shadow — taller, thinner, more
awkward about the knees and elbows. This silhouette is already the
artifact of a girl who has moved on, but this is not obvious from the
picture. In the scrapbook, the only sign of change is a bend on one comer
of Flat Diane's wide paper, a design drawn in the white space over the
outlined left shoulder, and the lock of white hair across Candice's
forehead.

The letter reads;

Diane —

Flat Diane arrived yesterday. I have to tell you she makes me
miss you. You can see she's here with me in my apartment.

I love you very much, Diane. I know that it can't seem like it
right now, but please believe me when I say it's tme. There is no one
in the world more important to me than you are. And I hope that,
when your father and I have worked out the paths our souls need to
take, we can be together again. Whatever happens, I will always be
your mother.

It is signed Candice Calvino, her maiden name.

The other letter is not in the scrapbook. It reads;

Ian -

Christ, Ian, I really don't know what to say. I thought that I could
just sit down and write this to you rationally, but I am just so
goddamn pissed off, I'm not sure that's possible.

This stunt is exactly the kind of emotional extortion that
made it impossible for me to stay near you. What were you
thinking? That you could hold her up, maybe wave her around like
a flag, and make me come trotting back — we could just stay
together for the children's sake? Our daughter should be more than
just the easiest tool for you to get in a dig at me. How could you do
this to her?

FLAT DIANE

137

If you wanted to make me feel guilty or shamed or selfish, well
nice job, Ian. You did.

Never use her like this again. If it isn't beneath you, it goddamn
well should be.

The hallway outside the school's administrative offices had white
stucco walls, linoleum flooring worn by millions of footsteps from
thousands of students, harsh fluorescent lighting. An old clock — white
face yellow with age — reported twenty minutes before the noon bell
would ring, the press of small bodies filling the halls like spring tadpoles.
When Ian walked in, straightening his tie, swallowing his dread, his
footsteps echoed.

The secretary smiled professionally when he gave her his name, and
led him to a smaller room in the back. The placard on the door — white
letters on false wood grain — said that the principal's name was Claude
Bruchelli. The secretary knocked once, opened the door, and stepped aside
to let Ian pass through a cloud of her cloying perfume and into the office.

The principal rose, stretching out a hand, establishing for Diane that
the grownups were together, that they had special rules of respect and
courtesy. It was the sort of thing Ian remembered with resentment from
when he'd been her age, but he shook the man's hand all the same.

"Thanks for coming, Mr. Bursen. I know it's hard to just leave work
like this. But we have a problem."

Diane, sitting on a hard-backed chair, stared at her feet. The way she
drummed her heels lightly against the chair legs told him that this was not
resentment, but remorse. Ian cleared his throat.

"All right," he said. "What's she done?"

"Mr. Bursen, we have some very strict guidelines from the city about
fighting."

"Another fight?"

The principal nodded gravely. It had been at morning recess. Her
friend Kit had been adamant that the other girl had started it, but the
teacher who had seen it all reported otherwise. No, there had been no
injuries beyond a few scratches. This was, however, the third time, which
meant a mandatory three-day suspension.

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Diane, stone-faced, seemed to be staring at a banner on the wall that
blared We Aim For Excellence! We Expect The Best Of You!

"All right," Ian said. "I can get her homework for her and she can do
it at home."

The principal nodded, but didn't speak. He looked at Ian from under
furrowed brows.

"Mr. Bursen, I have to follow the guidelines. And they're good as far
as they go, but Diane's anger problems aren't going to go away. I wish
you'd reconsider letting Mrs. Birch...."

"No. I'm sorry, no. I've had a certain amount of counseling myself,
one time and another. It doesn't do any good to force a child into it."

"Perhaps Diane would choose to," the principal said, as if she wasn't
there, as if her dark, hard eyes weren't fixed on his wall. Ian shrugged.

"Well, what of it, Diane? Care to see Mrs. Birch?" He'd meant to say
it gently, but the tone when it left his mouth sounded more of sarcasm.
Diane shook her head. Ian met the principal's gaze.

All the way back home, Diane pressed herself against the car door,
keeping as far from Ian as she could. He didn't try to speak, not until he
knew which words were in him. Instead, he ran through all the people he
could think of who might be able or willing to look after Diane for the
duration of her exile.

When, that night, he finally spoke, he did it poorly. They were eating
dinner — chicken soup and peanut butter sandwiches. He hadn't spoken,
she had sulked. Between them the house had been a bent twig, tension
ready to snap.

"I can't afford to take three days off work," he said. "They'll fire me."

Diane shrugged, a movement she inherited from him. Her father, who
shrugged a lot of feelings away.

"Di, can you at least tell me what this is all about? Fighting at school.
It isn't like you, is it?"

"Lisa started it. She called me a nerd."

"And so you hit her?"

Diane nodded and took a bite of her sandwich. Ian felt the blood
rushing into his face.

"Jesus Christ, Di. You can't do this! What. . .1 don't know what you're
thinking! I am holding on to this house by a thread. I am working every

FLAT DIANE

139

day for you, and you are being a little brat! I don't deserve this from you,
you know that?"

The bowl sailed across the room, soup arcing out behind it. It
shattered where it landed. Diane's bowl. Ian went silent. She stood on her
chair, making small grunting noises as she tore the sandwich and squeezed
the bread and peanut butter into paste.

"You never listen to me! You always take everyone else's side!"

"Diane...."

"When?" she screamed. "Exactly when in all this do I start to
matter?"

It was her mother's voice, her mother's tone and vocabulary. Ian's
chest ached suddenly, and the thought came unbidden: What has Candice
said in front of that drawing^ Diane turned and bolted from the room.

When the shards of their dinner were disposed of, the salt of soup and
sweet of sandwich buried alike in the disposal, Ian went to her. In the dark
of her room, Diane was curled on her bed. He sat beside her and stroked
her hair.

"I didn't do anything wrong, " she said, her voice thick with tears. She
didn't mean fighting or throwing soup bowls. She meant that she had done
nothing to deserve her mother's absence.

"I know, sweetie. I know you didn't."

"I want to see Mrs. Birch."

He felt his hand falter, forced it to keep touching her, keep reassuring
her that he was there, that they were a family, that all would be well.

"If you want, sweetie," he said. "We can do that if you want."

He felt her nod. That night, trying to sleep, he thought of every mean-
spirited thing he'd ever said to Diane, of every slight and disappointment
and failure that he'd added to her burden. Candice's letter — the private
one she'd sent to him — rang in his mind. Diane would he confessing all
his sins to someone he'd never met, who would he taking confidences
from his daughter that he might never know.

For all the weeks and months that he'd silently prayed for someone
to help, someone to shoulder part of the burden of Diane's soul, the
granting tasted bitter. His fears were unfounded.

The time came, and Mrs. Birch — a thick woman with a pocked face
and gentle voice — became a character in Diane's tales of her days. He

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waited with a sense of dread, but no recriminations came back to him from
the school, no letters condemning him as a man and a father. In fact, over
the weeks, Diane seemed to become more herself. The routine of fight and
reconciliation with Kit, the occasional missive from Flat Diane's latest
hosts, the complaints about schoolwork and clothes and how little money
he had to spend on her all came almost back to normal. Once, he saw what
might have been anger when Diane saw a photograph of her mother. After
that he noticed that she had stopped asking when Mommy was coming
home. He couldn't have said, if asked, whether the sorrow, the sense of
triumph, or the guilt over that sense was the strongest of his reactions.

Everything was fine until the night in February when she woke up
screaming and didn't stop.

T he picture is cheap — the color balance is off,
giving the man's face an unnatural yellow tint. He is in
his later twenties, perhaps his early thirties, the presen-
timent of jowls already plucking the flesh of his jaws.
His hair is short and pale. His eyes are blue.

In the picture. Flat Diane has been taped around a wide pillar, her arms
and legs bending back out of sight. A long black cloth wraps across where
the eyes might be, had Ian drawn them in; a blindfold.

The man who Ian doesn't know, has never met, is caressing a drawn-
in breast. His tongue protrudes from his viciously grinning mouth, its tip
flickering distance from the silhouette's thigh. He looks not like Satan,
but like someone who wishes that he were, someone trying very hard to be.

The writing on the back of the photograph is block letters, written in
blue felt-tip.

It reads: Flat Diane has gone astray.

A new photograph comes every week. Some might be amusing to
another person; most make him want to retch.

The best trick Hell has to play against its inmates is to whisper to
them that this — this now — is the bottom. Nothing can be worse than
this. And then to pull the floor away.

"I'm sorry," Ian said, refusing to understand. "I didn't catch that."
Mrs. Birch leaned back, her wide, pitted face tired and impassive. She

FLAT DIANE

141

laced her hands on her desk. The hiss of the heating system was the only
sound while she brought herself to break the news again. This time, she
took a less direct approach.

"Diane has always had an anger problem. There's no good time to lose
your mother, but this stage of development is particularly bad. And I think
that accounts for a lot of her long-term behaviors. The fighting, the acting
out in class, but these new issues...."

"Child Protective Services?" Ian said, able at last to repeat the
counselor's statement and plumb the next depth of hell. "You called Child
Protective Services?"

"The kind of sudden change we've seen in her — the nightmares, the
anxiety attacks.... She's in fifth grade, Mr. Bursen. No kid in fifth grade
should be having anxiety attacks. When she went to the doctor, you and
he and two nurses together couldn't get her to undress, and you say she
never had a problem with it before. That kind of sudden change means
trauma. Nothing does that but trauma."

Ian closed his eyes, the heel of his palm pressed to his brow, rubbing
deeply. His body shook, but it seemed unconnected to his terrible clarity
of mind, as if the tremors were something being done to him.

"The Buspar seems to be helping," he said. An idiot change of subject,
and not at all to the point, but Mrs. Birch shifted in her chair and went
there with him.

"There are a lot of anti-anxiety drugs," she agreed. "Some of them
may help. But only with the symptoms, not the problem. And the trauma,
whatever it is... it may be something ongoing."

"Christ."

"She's graduating in a few weeks here. Next year's middle school, and
I won't be able to see her anymore. With CPS, you'll have a caseworker,
someone who isn't going to change every time she switches schools. And
who knows? Maybe the investigation will help. I'm sorry. About all of
this. I really am. But it's the right thing."

Now it was Ian's turn to go silent, to gather himself. Speaking the
words was like standing at the edge of a cliff.

"You think I'm fucking my kid."

"No, " Mrs. Birch said, in the voice of a woman for whom this territory
was not new. "But I think somebody is."

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Diane waited for him in the outer office, looking smaller than she
was, folded in on herself. He forced himself to look at her as she was, and
not as he wanted her to be. She forced a smile and raised a hand, sarcastic
and sad. Ian knelt at her feet and took her hand, but Diane would not meet
his gaze. Mrs. Birch was a presence he felt behind him, but didn't see.

"Sweetie," he said.

Diane didn't look up. He reached out to stroke her hair, but hesitated,
pulled back. It was that fear that touching his child would be interpreted
as sex that brought home how much they had lost.

"It's going to be okay, sweetie," he said, and Diane nodded, though
she didn't believe it . When he stood, she scooped up her book bag and went
out with him. In the hallway, with Mrs. Birch still haunting the door to
the office, Diane reached up and put her hand in his. It was a thin victory,
hardly any comfort at all.

The clouds were close, smelling of rain. He drove home slowly, the
sense of disconnection, of unreality, growing as the familiar streets passed
by. Diane sat alert but silent until they were almost home.

"Are they going to make me live with Mom?"

A pang of fear so sharp it was hard to differentiate from nausea struck
him, but he kept his voice calm. He couldn't let her think they might lose
each other.

"Make you? No, sweet. There's going to be someone from the state
who's going to want to talk to you, but that's all."

"Okay."

"They're going to ask you questions," he continued, the words
leaking from him like air from a pricked balloon. "You just need to tell
them the truth. Even if you get embarrassed or someone told you that you
shouldn't tell them something, you should tell them the truth."

"Okay."

He pulled into the driveway, their house — Christ, the mortgage
payment was a week late already; he had to remember to mail the check
tomorrow — looming in the twilight. The lawn was the spare, pale green
of spring.

"You should tell me the truth too," he said, amazed by how sane he
sounded, how reasonable. "Sweetie? Is there anyone who's doing things to
you? Things you don't like?"

FLAT DIANE

143

"Like am I getting molested?"

Amazing too how old she had become. He killed the engine. There had
to be some way to ask gently, some approach to this where he could still
treat her like a child, still protect her innocence. He didn't know it,
couldn't find it. The rich scent of spring was an insult.

"Are you?" he asked.

Diane's eyes focused on the middle distance, her face a mask of
concentration. Slowly, she shook her head, but her hands plucked at the
seat, popping the cloth upholstery in wordless distress.

"If something were happening, Di, you could tell me. There wouldn't
be anything to be afraid of."

"It's not so bad during the day, " she said. "It's at night. It's like I know
things. . .there's things I know and things I can almost remember. But they
didn't happen."

"You're sure they didn't?"

A hesitation, but a nod — firm and certain.

"The doctor's going to want to examine you," he said.

"I don't want him to."

"Would it be better with a different doctor?"

"No."

"What if it was a woman? Would that make it easier?"

Diane frowned out the window of the car.

"Maybe," she said softly. Then, "I don't want to be crazy."

"You're not, sweet. You're not crazy. No more than I am."

They ate dinner together, talking about other things, laughing even.
A thin varnish of normalcy that Ian felt his daughter clinging to as
desperately as he was. Afterward, Kit called, and Diane retreated to gossip
in privacy while Ian cleaned the dishes. He read her to sleep, watching her
chest from the comer of his eye until her breath was steady and deep and
calm. He left a night-light glowing, a habit she'd returned to recently.

He sat in the kitchen and slowly, his hands shaking, laid out the
pictures of Flat Diane — the ones recently arrived, the ones he hadn't
shown her. He shuffled them, rearranged them, spread them out like
tarot.

It had been stupid, sending out their real address. Ian saw that now,
and twisted the thought to better feel the pain of it. What if this mad fucker

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had tracked down Diane because Ian had as good as sent out directions to
her...?

But no, he didn't believe that. Or that Tohiro or one of her teachers or
some evil pizza delivery man had targeted her. The photographs were too
much a coincidence, the timing too precise.

He recalled vividly his art history teacher back at university, back at
home in Scotland. The old man had told each of them to bring in a picture
of a person they loved — mother, father, brother, lover, pet. And then, he'd
told them to gouge out the eyes. The shocked silence was the first moment
of his lecture on the power of image, the power of art. These were dumb
bits of paper, but each of them that touched pen-tip to a beloved eye knew
— did not believe, but knew — that the pictures were connected with the
people they represented.

Ian had sent his daughter's soul voyaging. He hadn't even considered
the risks. It was worse than sending only their address; he might as well
have delivered her, trussed and helpless. And now....

And now Flat Diane had gone astray.

With a boning knife, he cut out the blond man's blue eyes, but he felt
the effort's emptiness. Nothing so poetic for him. Instead, he took the
envelopes to his study, turned on his computer, and scanned in the
bastard's face. When it was saved, he dropped it into e-mail and then got
on the phone.

"Hello?" Candice said from a thousand miles away. Her voice was
uncertain — wondering, he supposed, who would be calling her so late at
night.

"It's Ian. Check your e-mail."

The pause would have been strained if he'd cared more. If this had still
been about the two of them and what they had and lost and why. Only it
wasn't, and the hesitation at the far end of the line only made him
impatient.

"Ian, what's this about?"

"Flat Diane, actually. I've had a letter for her. Several. I need to know
who the man is in the pictures."

Another pause, but this one different. Ian could hear it in the way she
breathed. Intimacy can lead to this, he supposed. Teach you how to read
a woman by her breath on the far end of a phone line.

FLAT DIANE

145

"You already know," he said. "Don't you."

"My computer's in another room. I can call you back."

"I'll wait, " he said.

She was back within five minutes, the hard plastic fumbling as she
picked the handset back up, giving way to her voice.

"I'm sorry, Ian," she said. "This is my fault. His name is Stan Lecky.
He... he was a neighbor of mine when 1 came out here. A friend."

"A lover?"

"No, Ian. Just a friend. But. . .he started saying things that made me. . . .
We had a falling out. 1 got a restraining order. He moved away eight or nine
months ago."

"He was the one who took the picture of you, wasn't he? The picture
of you and Flat Diane."

"Yes."

Ian considered the envelope that had contained the latest atrocity.
The postmark was from Seattle. Stan Lecky in Seattle. And a photo of him,
no less. Certainly it couldn't be so hard with all that to find an address.

"She hasn't seen that, has she?" Candice asked. He didn't know how
best to answer.

Ian slept in on Saturday, pretending that the dead black sleep and the
hung-over exhaustion of his body were related somehow to luxury. It had
been years since he'd been able to sleep past six a.m. He had Diane to feed
and dress and shuffle off to school. He had his commute. His body learned
its rhythms, and then it held to them. But Saturday, Ian rose at ten.

Diane was already on the couch, a bowl of cereal in her lap, her eyes
clouded. Her skin seemed paler, framed by the darkness of her hair. Bags
under her eyes like bruises. Ian recalled Victorian death pictures —
photographs of the dead kept as mementos, or perhaps to hold a bit of the
soul that had fled. He made himself toast and tea, and sat beside his
daughter.

On the TV, girls three or four years older than Diane were talking
animatedly about their boyfriends. They wore tight jeans and midriff tops,
and no one thought it odd. No one wondered whether this was the path of
wisdom. He found himself wondering what Diane made of it, but didn't
ask. There were more pressing issues.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

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"Okay."

"More nightmares?"

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the screen. Ian nodded, accepting the
tacit yes. He finished his toast, washed down the last of his tea, smacked
his hps.

"I have to go out for a little while. Errands."

"Want me to come too?"

"No, you stay here. I won't be long."

Diane looked away and down. It made his heart ache to see it. Part of
that was knowing that he'd once again failed to protect her from some
pain, and part a presentiment of the longer absence she would have to
endure. He leaned over and kissed the crown of her head where the bones
hadn't been closed the first time he'd held her.

"I'll be right back, kiddo," he murmured, and she smiled wanly,
accepting his half-apology. And yet, by the time he had his keys, she was
lost again in the television, gone into her own world as if he had never been
there.

Tohiro was sitting in his driveway, a lawnmower partially disas-
sembled before him. He nodded as Ian came up the path, but neither rose
nor turned back to his work. Ian squatted beside him.

"I don't know why I think I can do this," Tohiro said. "Every time I
start, it's like I don't remember how poorly it went the time before. And
by the time it comes back to me, it's too late, the thing's already in pieces. "

"Hard. I do the same thing myself."

Tohiro nodded.

"I need a favor, " Ian said. "I have to go away for a bit. Diane's mother
and I. . .there are some things we need to discuss. I might be away for week,
perhaps. Perhaps less. I was wondering if...."

It choked him. Asking for help had never been a strong suit, nor lying.
The two together were almost more than he could manage. Tohiro
frowned and leaned forward, picking up a small, grease-covered bit of
machinery and dropping it thoughtfully into a can of gasoline.

"Are you sure that's wise? " Tohiro asked. "The timing might look. ..."

He knew then. Diane had told Kit, and Kit her parents; nothing could
be more natural.

"I don't have the option," Ian said.

FLAT DIANE

147

"This is about what's happening to Diane?"

"Yes."

Ian's knees were starting to ache a bit, but he didn't move, nor did
Tohiro. The moment stretched, then:

"It might be better if Kit invited her," Tohiro said. "If it were a treat
— a week-long slumber party — it could mask the sting."

"Do you think she would?"

"For Diane? Kit would learn to fly if Diane asked her. Girls."

"I'd appreciate it. More than I can say."

"You are putting a certain faith in me."

Tohiro met his gaze, expression almost challenging.

"It isn't you," Ian said, softly. "I'm fairly sure I know who it is."

"I see."

Ian shrugged, aware as he did so that it was a mirror of his daughter's,
and that Tohiro would understand its eloquence as Ian had understood
Diane's.

"I'll let you know when it's going to happen," Ian said. "I can't go
before the CPS home visit, but it won't be long after that. And if you ever
need the same of me, only say so."

The man shifted under Ian's words, uneased. Dark eyes looked up at
him and then away. Tohiro stuck fingers into the gasoline, pulling out the
shining metal that the fuel had cleaned.

"That brings up something. Ian. . . . Aima and I would rather not have
Kit stay over with Diane. I know it isn't you, that you wouldn't., .but the
stakes are high, and I can't afford being wrong."

Ian rocked back. A too-wide rictus grin forced its way onto his face —
he could feel the skin pulling.

"I'm sorry, Ian, it's just...."

"It's the right thing," he forced out, ignoring the anger and shock,
pushing it down. "If I thought for a minute that it was you... or even if I
only weren't certain, then...."

Ian opened his hands, fingers spread; the gesture a suggestion of open
possibility, a euphemism for violence. It was something they both
understood. Men protected their children. Men like the two of them, at
least.

Ian pulled himself up, his knees creaking. Kit, in the window, caught

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sight of him and waved. She was lighter than Diane, but not as pretty, Ian
thought.

"I'll call later," Ian said.

"Do. I'll talk with Kit. We'll arrange things. But Ian? Diane needs you."

"I know she does. I don't want to leave her. Especially now, I just...."

"I didn't mean don't go," Tohiro said. "I meant don't get caught."

The home visit was less than he expected. Two women in casual
businesswear appeared at the appointed hour. One took Diane away, the
other asked him profoundly personal questions — Why had his wife left
him? Had he been in therapy? Did he have a police record? Could he
describe his relationship with his daughter? Only the last of these pushed
him to tears. The woman was sympathetic, but unmoved; a citizen of a
nation of tears from innocent and guilty alike.

She arranged a time and place for Diane to see a doctor — a woman
doctor and Ian hadn't even had to ask. He promised that Diane would be
there, and she explained the legal ramifications if she were not. The other
woman appeared with Diane at her side. Diane's face was gray with
exhaustion. Ian shook their hands, thanked them explicitly for coming,
implicitly for not taking his child from him.

When they had gone, Diane went out to the back steps, looking out
over a yard gone to seed — long grass and weeds. Her head rested in her
hands. Ian sat beside her.

"Not so bad, was it?" he asked.

"She asked me a lot of questions," Diane said. "I don't know if I
answered them all right."

"Did you tell her the truth?"

"I think so."

"Only think?"

Diane's brow furrowed as she looked at the horizon. Her shoulders
hunched forward.

"She asks if things happened. And sometimes I think they did, but
then I can't remember. After a while I start getting scared."

"It's like you're living a life you don't know about," Ian said, and she
nodded. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned in to him,
trembling and starting to cry. Her sobs wracked her thin body like
vomiting. Ian, holding her, wept.

FLAT DIANE

149

"I'm not okay, Daddy," she wailed to his breast. "I'm not okay. I'm
not okay."

"You will be, sweetie. You will."

T he picture is cropped. In the original, things had
been happening as unnatural to paper as they would be
to a child. In this version, only the man's chest above the
nipples, his shoulders, his face, his smug expression.
These are all the details that matter. In this photograph, he could be
anyone, doing anything. It is a head shot, something to put down on a bar
or store counter, the sort of photograph that seems to fit perfectly with the
phrase "I'm looking for someone; maybe you've seen him."

The original photo has obscenities and suggestions written on it.
There is no writing on this copy, no note to accompany it. Nothing that
will tie it back to Ian, should the police find it and not him.

He had driven to Seattle — a two-day trip — in a day and a half. Flying
would have been faster, but he'd taken his pistol out of storage. Driving with
a handgun was easy; flying impossible or, if not impossible, not worth doing.

He arrived in the city late at night and called Diane from a payphone
using a card he'd bought with cash. She was fine. School was boring. Kit
was a butthead. Her voice was almost normal — if he knew her less, he
might have mistaken it. He was her father, though, and he knew what she
sounded like when things were okay and when she only wanted them to
be. They didn't talk about the nightmares. He told her he loved her, and
she evaded, embarrassed. With the handset back in its cradle, the gun in
his jacket pocket pulling the fabric down like a hand on his shoulder, Ian
stood in the rain, the cool near-mist soaking him. In time, he gathered
himself together enough to find a hotel and a bed to lie in while his flesh
hummed from exhaustion and the road.

Finding Lecky took all the next day and part of the night, but he did
it. The morning sun gave the lie to the city's gray reputation — clouds of
perfect white stretched, thinned, vanished, re-formed against a perfect
blue sky. Nature ignoring Ian's desperation. The kids spare changing on
the street comers avoided his gaze.

It was early, the morning rush hour still a half hour from starting. Ian

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didn't want the beast to go off to work, didn't want to spend a day waiting
for the confrontation. He wanted it over now.

The house was in a bad part of town, but the lawn was trim, the
windows clean. Moss stained the concrete walk, and the morning paper
lay on the step, wrapped in dewy plastic. Ian picked it up, shaking the
drops from it, and then rang the doorbell. His breath was shaking. The door
opened and the beast appeared, a cup of coffee in one hand.

There was no glimmer of recognition, no particular sense of confusion
or unease. Here, Ian thought, was a man with a clear conscience. A man
who had done no wrong.

"I need to talk to you," Ian said, handing the man his newspaper.

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

"No. But we have business in common. We have people in common,
I think. May I come in?"

The man frowned at Ian and put down the paper.

"I'm sorry," the beast said, smiling as he stepped back, preparing to
close the door. "I have to get to work here, and really I don't want whatever
you're selling. Thanks, though."

"I've come for Flat Diane."

The man's expression shifted — surprise, chagrin, anger, all in the
course of a single breath. Ian clamped his hand on the butt of his pistol, his
finger resting against the trigger.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Ian said. "I
have the pictures."

The beast shook his head, defensive and dismissive at the same time.

"Okay," the man said. "Okay, look, so it was a bad joke. All right. I
mean, it's not like anyone got hurt, right?"

"What do you know about it?"

Something in Ian's voice caught his attention. Pale blue eyes fixed on
him, the first hint of fear behind them. Ian didn't soften. His heart was
tripping over as if he'd been running, but his head felt very calm.

"No one got hurt," the man said. "It's just paper. So maybe it was a
httle crude. It was just a joke, right? You're, like, Diane's dad? Look, I'm
sorry if that was a little upsetting, but...."

"I saw what you did to her."

"To who?" The eyes were showing their fear, their confusion.

FLAT DIANE

151

"My daughter."

"I never touched your daughter."

"No?"

It was a joy, stripping his certainty away, seeing the smug, leering face
confused and frightened. Ian leaned in.

"Tell you what. Give me Flat Diane," he said, "and I might let you
live."

The panic in the pale eyes was joyous, but even in his victory, Ian felt
the hint that it was too much; he'd gone too far.

"Sure," the beast said, nodding. "No, really, sure. Come on. I'll...."

And he tried to slam the door. Ian had known it was coming, was ready
for it. His foot blocked the closing door and he pulled the gun from his
pocket. The beast jumped back, lost his balance, toppled. The coffee
fanned out behind him and splashed on the hardwood floor as Ian kicked
the door closed behind him.

The beast was blinking, confused. His hands were raised, not in
surrender, but protection, as if his fingers might deflect a bullet. A radio
was playing — morning show chatter. Ian smelled bacon grease on the air.

"Please," the beast said. "Look, it's going to be okay, guy. fust no
guns. All right? No guns."

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Flat Diane!" Ian yelled, pleased to see the beast flinch.

"It's not here anymore. Seriously. Seriously, it's gone. Joke over.
Honestly."

"I don't believe you."

"Look, it's a long story. There were some things that happened and it
just made sense to get rid of it, you know? Let it go. It was only supposed
to be a joke. You know Candice...."

Ian shook his head. He felt strange; his mind was thick as cotton and
yet perfectly lucid.

"I'm not leaving without her," he said.

"It's not here!" the beast shouted, his face flushed red. He rolled over,
suddenly facing the back of the house. Running. With a feeling like
reaching out to tap the fleeing man's shoulder, Ian raised the gun and fired.
The back of the beast's head bloomed like a rose, and he fell.

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Oh Jesus, Ian thought. And then, a moment later, / couldn’t have
made that shot if I’d tried.

He walked forward, pistol trained on the unmoving shape, but there
was no need. The beast was dead. He'd killed him. Ian stood silently,
watching the pool of blood seep across the floor. There was less than he'd
thought. The morning show announcers laughed at something. Outside,
a semi drove by, rattling the windows. Ian put the gun in his pocket,
ignoring the heat.

He hadn't touched anything, not with his hands. There were no
fingerprints. But he didn't have Flat Diane. He had to search the place. He
had to hurry. Perhaps the beast kept plastic gloves. The kind you use for
housework.

He searched the bedroom, the bath. The kitchen where half an egg was
growing cold and solid on its plate. And then the room in the back. The
room from the pictures. He went through everything — the stacks of
pornography, the camera equipment. He didn't look away, no matter how
vile the things he found. Rape pom. Children being used. Other things.
Worse. But not his daughter.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands, when the voice
came. The house was a shambles. Flat Diane wasn't there, or if she was,
she was too well hidden. He didn't know what to do. The doorbell chimed
innocently and a faint voice came.

"Stan?" it said. A woman's voice. "Stan, are you in there? It's Margie."

Ian stood and walked. He didn't mn. He stepped over the corpse,
calmly out the back door, stuffing the mbber gloves into his pockets as he
went. There was an alleyway, and he opened the gate and stepped out into
it. He didn't mn. If he ran, they'd know he was mnning from something.
And Diane needed him, didn't she. Needed him not to get caught.

Ian didn't stop to retrieve his things from the hotel; he walked to his
car, slipped behind the wheel, drove. Twenty minutes east of Klamath
Falls, he pulled to the side, walked to a tree, and leaning against it, vomited
until he wept.

"I didn't mean to, " he said through his horror. "Christ, I didn't mean to. "

He hadn't called Diane from his room. He hadn't given anyone his
name. He'd even found a hotel that took cash. Of course he'd fucking
meant to.

FLAT DIANE

153

"I didn't mean to," he said.

He slept that night at a rest stop, bent uncomfortably across the back
seat. In his dreams, he saw the moment again and again; felt the pistol
jump; heard the body strike wood. The pistol jumped; the body struck the
floor. The pale head, round as an egg, cracked open. The man fled, heels
kicking back behind him; the pistol jumped.

Morning was sick. A pale sun in an empty sky. Ian stretched out the
vicious kinks in his back, washed his face in the restroom sink, and drove
until nightfall.

He hadn't found Flat Diane, but he couldn't go back for her — not
now. Maybe later, when things cooled down. But by then she could have
been thrown away or burned or cut to pieces. And he couldn't guess what
might happen to Diane when her shadow was destroyed — freedom or
death or something entirely else. He didn't want to think about it. The
worst was over, though. The worst had to be over, or else he didn't think
he could keep breathing.

Tohiro and Anna's house glowed in the twihght, windows bright and
cheerful and warm and normal. He watched them from the street, his back
knotted from driving, the car ticking as it cooled. Tohiro passed by the
picture window, his expression calm, distant and slightly amused. Anna
was in the kitchen, the back of her head moving as her hands worked at
something; washing, cutting, wringing — there was no way to tell.
Somewhere in there. Kit and Diane played the games they always did. The
pistol jumped; the body fell. Ian started the car, steadied his hands on the
wheel, then killed the engine and got out.

Tohiro's eyebrows rose a fraction and a half-smile graced his mouth
when he opened the door.

"Welcome back," Tohiro said, stepping back to let him in. "We
weren't expecting you until tomorrow. Things went better than you
thought?"

"Things went faster."

Curiosity plucked at the comers of Tohiro's eyes. Ian gazed into the
house, willing away the questions that begged to be asked. Tohiro closed
the door.

"You look...," he began.

Ian waited. Like shit. Or maybe pounded. The silence stretched and

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he glanced over. Tohiro's face was a soft melancholy. Ian nodded, barely
moving, half asking him to finish, half daring him.

"You look older."

"Yeah, well. You know. Time."

A shriek and the drumming of bare feet and Diane had leapt into his
arms. His spine protested the weight. Ian held her carefully, like some-
thing precious. Then, as if she'd suddenly remembered that they weren't
alone, she drew back, tried to make it all seem casual.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. You been good?"

Diane shrugged — an / guess gesture.

"We were just about to have supper," Tohiro said. "If you'd like to join

us?"

Ian looked at Diane. Her face was impassive, blank, but at the edges
there were the touches invisible to anyone else, anyone who didn't know
her as he did.

"I think I'd rather just roll on home," Ian said. "That good by you,
sweetie?"

"Sure," she said, upbeat enough that he knew it had been her fondest
wish. He let her ride him to the car, piggyback.

That night, they both suffered nightmares. It struck Ian, as he calmed
Diane from hers and waited for his own to fade, that there would be more
nights like this; screams from her or from him, then warm milk and night-
lights and empty talk that gave the evil some time to fade. That if they
were lucky there would be many more. Nothing more would happen to
Flat Diane; justice would not come to call for him. It was the best he could
hope for.

"It's okay," he whispered to her as she began to drowse. Curled into
her blanket, her breath came deeper, more regular. "It's over. It's over,
sweetie. It's all right."

He didn't add that just being over didn't mean it hadn't changed
everything forever, or that some things don't stop just because they've
ended. Or that a girl set voyaging takes her own chances, and no father's
love — however profound — can ever call her back. Those weren't the
sorts of things you said when all you had to offer your child were comfort
and hope.

while this issue doesn't include any space opera stories, it does have a good
spectrum of sf and fantasy stories, ranging from the futuristic to the prehistoric.
Here’s a light tale of high fantasy from one of the genre’s preeminent practitioners.
Speaking of light fantasy, now’s a good time to mention oh-so-subtly that a
collection of heroic and high fantasy stories from F&SF, entitled In Lands That
Never Were, is due to hit the bookstores around the time this issue comes off the
presses.

The Courtship of
Kate O’Farrissey

By John Morressy

HE WIZARD CONHOON

was not famed for his softness of
heart. Indeed, he was well known as a
man who derived a deep satisfaction
from placing a curse on anyone who deserved it and was always amenable
to cursing those who, at the moment, did not, on the certainty that before
long, they would.

Neither was Conhoon ever considered a companionable man. Early in
his life, for reasons he did not choose to disclose and may well have
forgotten completely, he had concluded that people, one and all, were no
good. Male and female, young and old, wife or kids or kin, friend or
neighbor, people eventually made life hell. Men shouted; women com-
plained; children screamed. Experience taught him that men also com-
plained, women also shouted, and children both shouted and complained
in addition to their screaming, and had other nasty ways as well. Animals
were out of the question; trolls were not found in his native land; spirits
were full of tricks. And so for a century and more, Conhoon had dwelt
alone in untidy bachelorhood. But now, for seven full years, someone had

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shared his cottage, and though he would have died a cruel death before
admitting it, her presence had brought about a distinct improvement in
his world.

Kathleen O'Farrissey was the daughter of an old acquaintance, a
charming worthless fellow who had gone off to live among the Good
People and left her to shift for herself. A young lady considerably gifted in
the magical line, by mutual compact she became Conhoon's ward and his
apprentice. She was also his cook, skivvy, laundress, housekeeper, barber,
gardener, carpenter, and maid of all work.

After seven years, it would have been hard to say which of them had
reaped the greater benefit from the arrangement. Kate was growing into a
lovely young lady (the O'Farrisseys had always been a comely stock). Her
long hair was as red as an autumn sunset, her eyes a deep blue, her hands
and feet small and delicate, her figure trim and slender. More often than
not, the beautiful blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from long hours
spent reading by flickering rushlight in the books of magical lore assigned
her by Conhoon, and the pale and dainty hands were red and raw from the
scrubbing and washing and wringing, and the grubbing in the garden; but
Kate seldom complained. She had worked harder in her father's house, and
gotten less for it. Here, she was learning a deal of handy magic and eating
regularly and well of her own excellent cooking. And while Conhoon was
quick to disparage, slow to give thanks, and constitutionally incapable of
speaking a word of praise, he never raised a hand to her. The O'Farrissey
had thumped her like a kettledrum. Thanks to her increasing skill in the
subtle arts, no one would ever do that again.

The benefits to Conhoon were more evident. Good food had filled out
his gaunt and bony frame. The garments that had once hung about him
now fit snugly. He had taken to patting his stomach comfortably after
meals; there was noticeably more of it to pat than there had ever been
before. His beard was fluffy and neatly trimmed; he could now run his
fingers through it without fear of getting them caught. His clothing
was clean and soft from frequent washing. And despite the startling
odors, unnerving stains, and general messiness inevitable in a wizard's
dwelling, the little house was a tidy place. Kate saw to that. She was a
treasure.

The problem was the young men.

THE COURTSHIP OF KATE O'FARRISSEY

157

Conhoon noticed the first one on a glorious morning in early spring,
when he looked out on his front garden — once an expanse of muck, his
dooryard had been made into a useful and attractive herb garden by Kate
— and saw a great lump of a lad making cow's eyes at the girl as she planted
horse mint. The sight of an intruder drew a low ominous growl from the
wizard. He prepared to shout a terrifying warning, but even as he chose his
words, he saw Kate pitch a clod at the boy's head, sending him off like a
startled deer. Conhoon smiled with satisfaction. The child was learning
well.

A week later, there were two lads gawking at her. She shied a clod at
each. Her aim was excellent. But three days later one of them was back,
and two days after that, the other.

As the weather wanned, so did the young lads. More and more of them
could be seen under the trees, or peering from behind a bush, or sighing by
the wall. Even rain did not deter them. To judge from the crowds underfoot
by early summer, one might have thought a fair was being held in the
woods around Conhoon's house.

He endured the intruders in silence until well after Midsummer
Night, telling himself that they were not worth cursing, and besides, it
would do the girl good to deal with her own problems and not expect him
to solve them for her. But once the serenading began, his patience was at
an end. He sat down to his porridge next morning with the look of an
executioner in his eyes.

"Did you hear them? Did you hear the singing?" he demanded.

"I did," she said, pouring milk over her porridge.

"That's the end of it. I'll stand for no more. Trampling my garden,
disturbing the cow, confusing the pigs... there'll be no more of it. If it's
singing they want. I'll give them singing. I'll turn the lot of them into
sparrows."

"Ah, now, it's only a lot of silly boys they are, and nothing for a wizard
to bother with. Sure, if I stamp my foot, they run and hide."

Gulping down a spoonful of porridge, Conhoon said, "Stamp your
foot, then, or they'll all be sparrows."

"And wouldn't that be a fine waste of magic? The sparrows would be
a bigger nuisance than the boys. Leave them to me."

Conhoon grunted and resumed eating. He consumed several mouthfuls

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of porridge in silence, then he asked, "Where do they come from? There's
no farm within a day's good walking."

"Oh, they're from here and there. One place and another. The young
men will travel a long way to see a great beauty."

Conhoon paused, spoon in midair. "What's this? What are you talking
about? What great beauty?"

"It's myself I'm talking about."

"You're no great beauty, you're my apprentice!"

Kate brushed back a lock of hair and swept the wizard up and down
with a look of icy hauteur. "So you say. There's others that say I'm the
grandest, loveliest lady in all of Ireland. If you listened to what the lads
sang, instead of shutting yourself up with your book of curses — "

Conhoon stood bolt upright. "It's a child you are! You're no grand
lady, you're O'Farrissey's kid!" he cried, waving his spoon about and
sending bits of porridge here and there.

"Tme enough, I am of the O'Farrisseys. My grandfather married the
fairest woman in all Meath, my mother was known as 'The Dark Rose of
Ballybunion,' and my father remarried to a princess of The People Outside
Us," said Kate, rising and drawing herself up. "I will thank you not to
forget that, and not to fling your porridge around the room."

"You're my apprentice, and I'll have no talk of marriage in this house,
or of grand and lovely ladies, and I'll have no more soft-headed layabouts
in my garden moaning and moping and filling your head with foolishness.
Time enough to think of marrying when you've learned to spell! " Conhoon
concluded with a flourish of his spoon.

Kate folded her arms. She gave a little sniff of laughter. "You great
fraud. You're afraid of losing your skivvy."

"I am not!"

"You've no liking anymore for bad food and dirt and raggedy clothes
all full of stains and a beard like the sweepings of a chicken coop hanging
from your chin. Spoiled is what you are, you lazy old lump."

"Will you listen to the ingratitude!" Conhoon lamented, flinging up
his hands, speckling the ceiling with bits of porridge. "A poor abandoned
child that I saved from starvation, and she turns on me the minute some
booby throws a sweet word at her. When I was an apprentice there was
respect for wizards, and not even a pooka would speak such words as have

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159

just been spoken in this house, but the apprentices these days...." He
trailed off into a low sullen growl.

"When you were an apprentice, you were not made to be cook and
baker and washerwoman and clod-breaker and stonemason and thatcher
and woodcutter and beard-trimmer and carpenter and milkmaid and pig-
swiller and a dozen other hard dirty jobs at once, and then spend hours
reading tiny print in near darkness," she said, shaking her fist at him.

"I was not. And aren't you always telling me I'm the worse for it? Here
I'm giving you all the advantages I never had, and you're no more grateful
than a cat."

Kate thrust out her jaw and fumed in silence for a moment. She hated
to have her own words quoted against her, because it left her with no
telling comeback. All she could manage was "Fraud!"

"Is it fraud to teach you all the things you need to know to make your
way in this world and any other you may find yourself in? There's many
would fall on their knees to thank me for such fraud. Ah, the O'Farrisseys
were always an ungrateful lot," said Conhoon, shaking his head sadly and
heaving a great martyred sigh.

Kate took a bit of time to calm herself. She folded her arms once more,
and in an even voice said, "I've learned how to save a household from ruin,
and I've learned a few handy spells. The knowledge will serve me well, and
grateful I am for it, if that's what you want to hear. And my husband will
be grateful, too." She seated herself and took a spoonful of porridge.

Conhoon made a series of inarticulate strangled noises before finally
roaring, "Husband? ! What husband are you talking about, you silly chit of
a girl?!"

Kate swallowed her porridge, put down her spoon, and with great
composure said, "It's a grown woman I am, and there's many paying court
to me, and many more who will. And when I find one that suits me. I'll
marry him, and you can cook your own porridge and fling it where you like
and clean it off the walls yourself."

Before Conhoon could find words adequate to articulate his outrage,
a glow in the air by the kitchen door caught his and Kate's attention. It
increased in size and brightness, and when it was the size of a kettle and
pale gold in hue, Conhoon turned to Kate and demanded, "When did you
learn this?"

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She gave a start at his words. She had been staring open-mouthed at
the apparition. In a subdued and mystified voice, she said, "It is no work
of mine."

"I have had enough, " said Conhoon, fixing his eye on the glow. He laid
his spoon carefully beside his bowl and pushed up his sleeves. "I have
tolerated clumsy bosthoons tramphng my grounds, and lovesick ser-
enades I have allowed without interruption. But enchanted intrusions
into my home is beyond my patience. Stand back, girl, the way you'll be
out of reach of the horrifying things I am about to do to this tricky meddler
the minute he shows his face."

He stood by the table, flexing his fingers in anticipation. Kate slipped
behind him, and standing on tiptoe, peeked over his shoulder. The
luminous visitation was now just about human size, and the light began
to undergo subtle shifts and shadings. A form became visible, and then
features. No lovesick swain appeared. To Conhoon and Kate's amaze-
ment, when the glow winked out, abruptly as a snuffed candle, a woman
in her middle years, wearing a pale pink dress and a tiara and holding aloft
a slender wand, smiling in a sweet and reassuring manner, stood in the
kitchen doorway. The tips of iridescent wings gleamed above her shoulders.

"Who are you?" cried Kate, and simultaneously Conhoon roared,
"What do you want?"

Craning forward and shielding her eyes with one hand, a precaution
totally unnecessary withindoors and one which struck the wizard as mere
affectation, the woman looked around the kitchen. Her inspection com-
pleted, she turned to Conhoon with an expression of concern and asked,
"Have I come to the right place?"

"No," he snapped.

"Oh, how terribly awkward. Isn't this the residence of...." She
rummaged in a pocket and drew out a small white book, which she held
at arm's length. Leafing through, she paused at a page, squinted, nodded,
and with a cheerful smile, concluded, "Miss Kathleen O'Farrissey, aged
seventeen, nearly eighteen?"

"And what would you be wanting with me?" Kate asked, stepping
boldly out from behind Conhoon. Hands on hips, she gave the woman in
pink a straight look and said, "If there's any ideas in your head about
whisking me off to marry your sorry-looking son, or bedazzling me with

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161

a love charm, or any of that, then you'd do well to light yourself up again
and be on your way before my Uncle Con sends you off with something
worse than a flea in your ear."

The woman blinked and smiled vaguely. "I beg your pardon, dear?"

"You heard her well enough. No tricks," said Conhoon.

She blinked again, then gave a sudden merry laugh. "Gracious me,
what a mix-up! Tricks! You must think I'm.... Oh me, oh my. Child, I'm
your fairy godmother! I came just as soon as I heard you mention
marrying."

Kate frowned. "So that's why you're here, is it?"

"Oh, you'll make such a lovely bride, you dear, dear little thing! I have
just the gown for you. Oh, my, yes! And I have the perfect slippers, very
plain, the purest white. . .you'll adore them, I know you will! " she gushed,
clapping her hands. She studied Conhoon for a moment and then asked
Kate, "Is this the gentleman who will give you away?"

"I'll give nobody away. Kate O'Farrissey is my apprentice. She's been
my apprentice for seven years and she'll be my apprentice for seventy
more if I say so."

"Now, don't you be a naughty old grouch," said the fairy godmother,
wagging her forefinger playfully at him. "Our little Kate is old enough to
be thinking of marriage, and you mustn't stand in her way. All those fine
young lads out in the garden and under the trees, and dozens more
hurrying here to pay court — why, she'll have her pick of the finest,
handsomest men in Ireland!"

"Sure, there's not one of them good enough for her. The girl's got the
makings of a wizard. Am I to let her throw it all away to go cook and clean
and keep house for a bumpkin?"

With a scornful laugh, Kate said, "Will you listen to the kindness of
that one? He'll spare me all that so I can cook and clean and keep house
for a wizard."

"Wizard?" The fairy godmother appeared confused.

"I am Conhoon of the Three Gifts. And sweetness to people who
appear in my kitchen and interfere with my apprentice is not a gift I have,
or wish to have."

"No one told me about this. I was notified that one of my girls was
contemplating marriage, but there was no mention of wizardry."

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"And who did the notifying, I'd like to know?" Kate asked.

"One of my assistants. They keep an eye on all my girls. Just as soon
as you mentioned your interest in marrying, I was informed and I came
directly here to give you the advice and help a girl needs at such a time."

"Did you, now? And where were you when the Da ran off with the
fairy host? And all the years when I was down on my knees scrubbing the
paving-stones, and out breaking clods under the hot sun, and sweeping out
the chimney, and repairing the thatch? Where were you then?" Kate said,
her voice sharp and her manner accusing.

"Kathleen dear, you must understand, there are very few of us fairy
godmothers, and we're kept terribly busy. I'm responsible for the happi-
ness of thousands of young ladies like yourself — "

"It's little enough you do for them," Conhoon observed.

"That's a very unfair remark. I see to it that every one of my girls
has a lovely wedding. I give her one day she'll remember for the rest of
her life. I think that's very important, and I don't like your comment
one bit."

"If you don't like my comments, get out of my kitchen."

Wizard and fairy godmother glared at one another. The atmosphere
grew tense. With very Uttle provocation, magic might have been flying
back and forth in an unpleasant and damaging manner. Sensing the
danger, Kate stepped between them and raised her hands.

"Let us have no more of this. There is a confusion to be cleared up, and
I cannot do that in the middle of a brannigan," she said. They continued
to look at one another with sullen expressions, and she pointed to the
two kitchen chairs. "Sit you down, and listen to me, the both of you."
They seated themselves at opposite sides of the table, stiffly, on the
edges of their chairs, ready to leap up on the instant. "Sit back. Pay
attention. Would you hke a glass of milk. Fairy Godmother, or a bit of
porridge?"

"No, thank you, dear girl. We do not partake of such nutriment."

"Suit yourself. I want to say — "

"Do you offer me nothing, and this my own house?" Conhoon asked
in an aggrieved tone.

"You've had your porridge. Now listen to me." Kate folded her arms
and gave each of them a severe look. They remained silent. Satisfied of

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163

their attention, she began, "I would say three things. First, the idea of a
beautiful wedding day which I will remember all my life pleases me very
much."

"Go on. Throw your life away," Conhoon muttered, glowering out
the window.

Ignoring the interruption, she went on, "Second, when the time
comes for me to take a husband, I will be happy to see my fairy godmother,
and glad will I be for any advice she gives me and anything she provides
in the way of a proper outfit."

"Thank you, dear child. So nice to be appreciated," said her fairy
godmother with a sweet smile and a smug glance at the wizard, who
growled like an old dog.

"Third, my mention of marriage this morning was speculative in
nature. I will marry when and if I please, and I do not please to marry until
I find the man who suits me, and I have not found him yet, and from the
looks of the lubbers and thickwits moping about this house for two
leagues in every direction, I am not likely to find him before I am too old
to remember why I wanted him."

"There's the sensible girl," said Conhoon, thumping the table top.

"You mustn't say such things! " cried the fairy godmother, starting up
with eyebrows arched in distress. "You mustn't even think such things!
Why, there are dozens of perfectly splendid young men outside the house
this very minute! Dozens, did I say? There are scores! Hundreds!"

"It's well hidden they are," said Kate.

"You don't know how to look, dear child. How could you have
learned?" said the fairy godmother with a disdainful glance at Conhoon,
who returned a black scowl. "And they have no idea of the proper way to
present themselves. Young men are so clumsy."

"They are that. And not enough sense do they have to dodge a mud-
ball when it comes at their heads."

Shocked, the fairy godmother said, "Do you throw things at your
suitors?"

"I do. And seldom do I miss," Kate replied. Conhoon beamed proudly
and nodded with satisfaction.

The fairy godmother frowned. "This is more serious than I realized.
My dear, you have a great deal to learn."

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"I'll be the judge of what she has to leam. The girl is my apprentice,
and I'll have nobody barging in here and filling her head with a lot of fairy
tricks," said Conhoon, rising.

"You persist in being offensive. Fairy godparents are not given to
tricks."

"Do you tell me so?"

"I most certainly do."

"Well, it's little you know of your own, if you say such a thing," said
Conhoon.

"Really? And what do you know of fairy godparents?"

"I know my own fairy godfather, and I would not trust him as far as
I could throw the Great Rock of Skillygiffin."

The fairy godmother gave a little sniff of mocking laughter. "If you
were any kind of a wizard, you could throw the Great Rock of Skillygiffin
from here to the ocean by speaking a simple phrase."

Reddening, Conhoon cried, "Do you hear that? Do you hear her
twisting my own words to turn them against me?"

"Good for her," said Kate, smiling.

"It's a fairy trick. They're full of them. Carmody was the worst of the
lot, but this one's near as bad."

"And who's Carmody?" Kate asked.

"My fairy godfather. The shiftiest man I ever met. The first time he
ever visited me he tried to borrow money, and the second time, he stole
my clean shirt. That's the way of fairy godfathers and godmothers, girl,
and don't be fooled by the smiles of this one. She's full of tricks."

"My dear child," said the fairy godmother, pointedly ignoring him,
"this person stands condemned by his own words. It is our practice to
match fairy godparents as closely as we can to their human charges."

"And are you matched to me?" Kate asked.

"Obviously. You are beautiful and charming, though sadly untaught.
If this person," she said with a contemptuous flick of the hand, "was
assigned to a shiftless, pilfering fairy godparent. . .well, I should think the
conclusion is inescapable."

"Will you listen to the slyness of the woman? The lie is so big it would
choke her, so she hints at it to delude the poor girl. Sure, they have no
shame at all," said Conhoon.

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165

"This is really too much to be home. Kathleen, dear, you must place
yourself in my hands at once. If you delay, it may be too late."

"Don't believe a word of it, girl," Conhoon said.

Fairy godmother and wizard locked eyes over the kitchen table. She
gave her wand a little prefatory shake. He pushed back his sleeves once
again, to allow for free gesturing. The time for talk had clearly passed.
Battle was to be joined.

"Stop it, the two of you!" Kate commanded. "I'll have no magic wars
in this kitchen!"

"Then make him behave!" cried the fairy godmother as Conhoon
howled, "Then get her out of this house!"

After a moment's taut silence, the fairy godmother's expression
softened to a winning smile. "No need for all this fuss. I will leave the
house. But I will return twelve times, with a suitor each time, so my
darling girl can make her choice of a husband," she said.

"Fairy tricks," Conhoon muttered.

"Twelve times? There aren't twelve out there worth a pail of ashes,"
Kate said with a toss of her head.

"Why don't you just leave it all up to me, dear? I'll choose the most
suitable one and bring him in here — "

"You will not," Kate cut in. "I will choose for myself. Pick the three
best, and I'll have a look at them."

"That's a very sensible decision, Kathleen dear. Three is such a
fraught number. Very wise of you. I'll be right back," said the fairy
godmother, and vanished.

"What are you doing to yourself, girl?" Conhoon asked in a pained
voice. "Will you throw your life away on one of that lot?"

"I'll let her weed out the worst."

"And you'll throw yourself away on the leavings. I should have
known better. The O'Farrisseys are all thick. You could have been a fine
wizard, and what'll become of you now? In twenty years you'll be a worn-
out old cailleach, covered with wrinkles and not a tooth in your head, with
twenty kids to feed and a husband to support, and devil a bit of help will
your fairy godmother be to you then."

"And if I stay here, in twenty years I'll be just as old, and not even in
my own house."

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"Ah, but if you're a wizard, you'll look and feel as young as you please,
and have a long life ahead of you. You need not look a day older or a day
worse than you do this very minute, if you choose."

Kate gazed hard at him for a moment without speaking, then lowered
her eyes and pondered his words. Before she could respond, her fairy
godmother returned, leading a slender, nervous young man. He was a
comely lad, with pitch-black hair and dark eyes, and a sensitive look to
him. He wore bright, neatly fitted clothing, and a green cloak fastened by
a jeweled pin. In one hand he carried a small harp.

"This is Fleary, Kathleen dear. He's a minstrel," said the fairy
godmother. "Come in, Fleary. Don't be afraid."

Bowing deeply to Kate, nodding to Conhoon, Fleary said, "Peace to all
in this house."

Conhoon made an ominous noise deep in his throat and Fleary took
a step back. The fairy godmother tugged him forward. "Fleary has written
a song in praise of you, Kathleen. Play it, Fleary."

The minstrel seemed to throw off his nervousness as easily as he
tossed back his short cloak. He cradled the harp in the crook of his arm,
smiled at each of those present in turn, then fixed a loving gaze on Kate
and began to sing in a high clear voice, accompanying himself with sweet
music.

"Kathleen Aroon, my Kate, beloved, fairest of women,

A beauty without flaw, she makes my heart tremble;

The hair of her red as fire, a curtain of flame,

A bright veil fluttering over her beauty;

Her eyes as blue as the sky at midsummer

Seen through the leaf-spaces of the hardy oak.

Star-bright, blinding bright, brighter than moon
Or sun are her eyes upon me.

Smooth and white as marble is her brow.

Fair it is and free of wrinkle as new-fallen snow.

A kiss from her soft lips would ease the pain
Of twenty thousand mortal wounds,

And make the dying man to skip and dance

And the dead man sing in his shroud for joy."

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167

Fleary struck a final chord and let the sound die into silence. Fie
looked at Kate to see her reaction. She said nothing. At last the fairy
godmother spoke.

"Well, now, Kathleen, wasn't that a lovely song?"

"Oh, lovely it was altogether. I will not soon hear a lovelier, I am sure
of that," said Kate.

"Then you'll choose Fleary?"

"I will not. I do not want to be wife to a man who can make a lovelier
woman with his words than I can ever be. Good day to you, minstrel. Bring
in the next one. Fairy Godmother."

Fleary left, looking dejected. The fairy godmother vanished again.
When they were alone, Kate said to Conhoon, "It is fine, what you say, but
I will not be a wizard in twenty years. It takes longer than that."

"Not for you, girl. You're the ninth daughter of a ninth daughter,
didn't you tell me that?"

"I did."

"And bom at night?"

"I was."

"Well, then, you have a start on the rest of them, with your natural
talent and all. I tell you, girl. I've got you reading books that I was not even
allowed to name until my thirty-second year of study, and you at it only
seven," said Conhoon, leaning toward her and lowering his voice to a
conspiratorial level.

"Is it the tmth you tell me?"

"I am no fairy godmother, filling your head with silliness. You have
the gift. You'd be spelling with the best of them in twenty years. Fifteen,
if you work hard."

"And how can I work hard when I'm — " Kate began, but her fairy
godmother's return ended the colloquy.

The suitor who strode behind the fairy godmother was tall and
graceful in his bearing, magnificent in his person. His hair was the color
of polished amber, his piercing eyes a deep green, his open countenance
pleasing and of a mddy hue betokening health and vigor. His flowing cloak
was a bright scarlet, and a shirt of the purest white, deep-bordered in gold
thread, was next to his fair skin. His sandals were buckled with gold, his
two spears were trimmed with gold, and golden decorations embellished

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his scarlet shield. He stooped to pass through the kitchen door, and when,
inside the room, he stood erect and smiled, it seemed as though the sun
had risen before them.

"This is Fialan of the Golden Spears, Kathleen dear. He's a great
warrior, a hero famed in song and story, and the third handsomest man in
Ireland," said the fairy godmother.

"That is good to know. And where are the two handsomer?" Kate
asked.

"They are my brothers, and they are both married," said Fialan in a
deep melodious voice. "And if you will marry me, Kate O'Farrissey, I will
study to become handsomer than both of them, and will also conquer the
world for you. I have already overcome the warriors and princes and kings
of this island, and for your sake I will go forth and do battle against the
world's finest and fiercest heroes, and claim their kingdoms for you, and
make them kneel in homage to your beauty. Black men and white men
will I meet in battle, and red men and yellow, and their women as well if
it be their custom. On foot, on horseback, or from my chariot will I fight
them, on land or neck-deep in water, or in boats on the sea, on mountaintops
or in dark caves or on the sun-tormented plain. And when I have overcome
them I will write sweet poetry to their memories, and I will bring peace
and order to their kingdoms, and give them law and a useful alphabet."

"That is very thoughtful of you, but it is entirely unnecessary," said
Kate.

"It is the most necessary thing of all, my fairest Kate, for haven't I
sworn to do all these things for the woman I marry?"

Kate folded her arms, studied him for a time, and said, "May she
appreciate it, then. It's a poor husband you'll be if you mean to spend your
life bashing strangers and then writing poems about them."

The fairy godmother flew to her side and whispered urgently, "Don't
let this one get away!"

"I'll choose for myself." Turning to Fialan and smiling graciously,
Kate said, "Good luck in your travels and your battles, Fialan of the
Golden Spears. I hope you find a woman who appreciates your efforts. I do
not."

Fialan bade them farewell with elegant words and withdrew. The
fairy godmother frowned at Kate and tapped her wand irritably in the palm

THE COURTSHIP OF KATE O’FARRISSEY

169

of her hand. "You're very pretty, Kathleen, but I think you're being just a
bit choosy for a girl without a dowry," she said at last.

"She's a dowry herself. A fine fairy godmother it is who can't see
that," said Conhoon.

"It's the principle of the thing. A girl without a dowry simply does not
reject the sweetest singer in all of Ireland and the mightiest hero. It isn't
done."

"Sure, didn't I just do it?" said Kate, looking proud of the fact.

"And if she does, she has the tact not to boast of it," the fairy
godmother said with manifest annoyance. "You're not making my work
any easier, Kathleen."

"I didn't ask for your help. Many a time would I have been glad of a
helping hand, but devil a bit of you did I see in those days."

"I told you, dear. I'm very busy. I have only a Httle bit of time to devote
to each of my girls, so I try to make myself available when I'm needed most.
And every girl needs her fairy godmother when she's choosing a husband. "

"I haven't chosen one yet."

"You will, dear," said the fairy godmother. Her smile radiated serene
confidence. "We'll settle this whole thing today, so I won't have to be
rushing back and forth every time you... well. I'd better get outside and
find the proper suitor."

When she was gone, Kate turned to Conhoon and said, "Fifteen years,
you tell me?"

"If you work hard, and do not let yourself be distracted by fairy tricks
and lovesick ninnies, you can be done with your apprenticeship in fifteen
years."

"And what does that mean? No more studying?"

"Are you daft, girl? Your studies will only be beginning, but you'll be
on your own."

She weighed that, and then asked, "And how hard must I work for
these fifteen years?"

It was Conhoon's turn to ponder. After a time, he said, "Six hours a
day at the books and six hours at practice."

"And with all the work around here, when am I supposed to sleep?"

"Sleep? You're not apprentice to a sleeper, girl, you're apprentice to
a wizard."

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"It's a staggering wreck I'll be in fifteen years, and no wizard at all. Do
you take me for a fool? I'd be better off married to a beggar — "

"I'm back, dear," said the fairy godmother as she popped through the
doorway. She turned to beckon to a raggedy fellow who trailed behind her,
head lowered, back bent. Bags hung from his shoulders and belt. A
drinking horn was thrust into his belt, and various objects of uncertain
purpose and no clear identity were tucked about his garments or depend-
ing therefrom. He pulled off his shabby dust-coated hat and ducked his
head in greeting.

"A fine choice you made," said Conhoon.

The fairy godmother shrugged. "The others are all gone. Fleary's
failure discouraged them, but when Kathleen refused Fialan, they all
decided they hadn't a chance. Only this fellow was left, and he's not a
suitor. All he wants is a crust of bread and a sup of water."

"Give him the bread and water, Kate, and let him and this one be off,
the way you can get back to work," said Conhoon.

"Let the poor man sit down," said Kate. "There's porridge left, and
milk in the pitcher. Sit you down, beggarman."

In a weak, piping voice, the beggar said, "It's unworthy I am to sit
in such company. Throw the food in the dirt, the way I'll scrabble for
it like the creatures of the farmyard. That's good enough for the likes
of meself."

"You will sit at the table and eat decent food in decent surroundings,
you poor man," said Kate, pulling out her own chair for him.

The beggarman leaned his staff in the comer, dropped his tom and
dusty hat to the floor, unloaded his heaviest bags, and shuffled to the
offered place. The fairy godmother looked on in silence. Conhoon studied
their guest, but he too remained silent. Kate set a bowl of tepid porridge
and the pitcher of milk before him and stood maternally by, wiping her
hands on her apron, as he gulped down the food.

"It's a grand lady you are to do such a kind deed, " said the beggar when
he was done.

Kate refilled the bowl. As he dug in, she said, "It's little enough to do
for a poor unfortunate man with rags to his back and tbe feet showing
through his shoes. Eat your fill, beggarman, and when you're done I'll find
you clothes to wear and a pair of boots for your feet."

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171

"You're too good entirely," the beggar mumbled through a mouthful
of porridge.

"And where will you get all this, girl?" Conhoon asked.

"Haven't you got a chest of clothes in your room that you haven't
worn in years, and couldn't fit into if you tried? It's little good they do you,
and here's a poor soul in need."

"Bless you, dear lady," piped the beggar.

"It's generous you are with my clothes," Conhoon grumbled.

"Don't begrudge them to a man in want. Tell me, beggarman," Kate
said, turning to the wretch, "What is it has brought you so low? Is it a curse
you'd be wanting removed?"

"It is something far worse than a curse has destroyed me, lady, it is me
own weakness and pride and greed. I was once a great scholar, and could
converse on all philosophical matters in language so wise that not three
men in Ireland and two more over the seas could understand a word of it.
But the pride grew in me, and I turned to the pursuit of forbidden
knowledge. And this is my punishment." Here the beggarman paused to
heave a reedy sigh, which brought on a coughing fit that lasted several
minutes. The fairy godmother looked on expectantly as Kate clasped her
hands and exhibited deep concern.

"Are you all right, beggarman?" she asked as his pinched face turned
a deep red.

"Oh, I'm grand," he gasped.

"Tell us, then — What happened to you in your pursuit?" Conhoon
asked, leaning forward with a show of interest.

"Late one night, when all was dark and still and meself stewing over
a petty insult and aching for revenge, I opened a book that no man has
dared to open for six thousand years. I began to speak the words of a spell
that once drowned an entire continent of innocent harmless people and
caused havoc across the world. It was the last straw. All around me the
spirits of earth and air, fire and frost, wood and water, the elements and the
seasons and all hving things combined to strip me of me power and wisdom
and leave me the broken beggarman you see before you," he concluded.

"Sure, they'll do that to a man," said Conhoon, nodding.

Kate wiped away a tear with her apron. "You poor suffering creature.
Is there no help for you?"

172

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Only one thing can save me: the love of a sweet young lass who has
powers of her own but has never put them to wicked uses. She must walk
the weary dusty roads with me for ten long years, filthy and ragged,
starving and shivering, and never a word of complaint out of her, and at the
end of that time, the curse will begin to fade. Ah, but where," he wailed,
"Where will a sorry stick of a man like me find such a woman?"

"You dear, sad man," Kate cried, "look no farther! You have found — "

"Stop, Kate! " Conhoon roared, rising with such speed and fervor that
his chair toppled over backward. Pointing to the fairy godmother, he said
wrathfully, "It's one of her tricks, and he's in it with her. But they can't
deceive Conhoon. This one is no more a beggarman than I'm a fairy
godmother!"

The beggar rose and bowed to him. "You are perceptive, sir," he said,
and in his thin voice was a new ring of authority. He turned to the fairy
godmother. "No need for this masquerade to continue. Restore me."

With a sad shake of her head, she tapped him gently with her wand.
The beggarman vanished, and in his place stood a splendidly dressed
youth, fair-haired and somewhat rabbity looking, but with the air of one
accustomed to being obeyed. Ignoring the others, he dropped to one knee
and said to Kate, "I am no beggarman but a prince, as is now obvious. I
agreed to this subterfuge to win you, fair lady, because I trusted to the
kindness of your heart. And now that you see to what desperate lengths
I am willing to go, will you not come with me and be my wife?"

Eyes blazing, Kate said, "I'll not marry a man who deceives me. If
you'll play a trick to win a woman, what tricks will you not play once the
poor defrauded creature is married to you? Be off with you, prince — but
not you. Fairy Godmother. There is explaining to be done before you leave
this house."

The prince departed with a bow and a flourish and not a word of
farewell. The fairy godmother looked utterly crestfallen. "My dear child,
it was all for your own good. You must trust your fairy godmother," she
said a trifle nervously.

"Carmody used to talk that way. Sure, they're all the same," said
Conhoon.

"It's eager you are to see me married if you'll stoop to plotting with
strangers," Kate said.

THE COURTSHIP OF KATE O’FARRISSEY

173

"I'm only thinking of your happiness, dear. Besides, he's not a
stranger. His sister was my godchild."

"He's a stranger to this house, and a stranger he'll remain. Tell me
straight — why do you want me married so quick?"

"Well, my dear, as I explained, we're very shorthanded. I'm ever so
busy. There's just no time... so many demands... and if I can fulfill my
obligation... bring you to closure, so to speak. ..then I'll be free to. ..I'll be
at liberty to assist,..," the fairy godmother waffled, looking everywhere
but at them, fumbling with her wand.

"If you get the girl married, you're quit of her. Is that what you're
telling the poor child?" said Conhoon.

"That's putting it very crudely."

"Is it the truth?" Kate asked.

The fairy godmother's round face settled into a pout. A tear welled in
one eye, overflowed, and ran down her cheek. "You don't care, any of
you," she said, her voice choked with feeling.

"If it isn't tricks, it's tears," said Conhoon.

"You don't know what it's like! It's just rush, rush, rush and not a bit
of help from anyone. I'm run off my feet!"

"Use your wings," Conhoon said.

"My wings! " she wailed, turning to display her back. "Look at them!
They're practically worn through! And look at the muscular development
— I'm more like a barbarian swordsman than a fairy godmother! And this
is what I get — mockery, accusation, insults!" She threw herself into the
empty chair, laid her head on her arm, and burst into sobs.

Conhoon and Kate exchanged a guilty glance. Kate laid a gentle hand
on the fairy godmother's beefy shoulder and said in a soft voice, "There,
now. It isn't as bad as that. We'll say no more about it."

The fairy godmother took her hand. She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and
said, "You should have been one of the easy ones, Kathleen dear. With
your fresh innocent beauty, and your quick wits, even without a dowry
you could have been married off in minutes. Oh, you wouldn't believe
some of the creatures I have to find husbands for — ugly as dirt, and dull,
and mean. There's one miller's daughter who's taken up half my time for
the past six years, and I just know I'll have her on my hands for six more.
And she has three younger sisters, and they're worse than she is."

174

FANTASY 81. SCIENCE FICTION

"You need not worry about me any more. I'm thinking I'll take my
sweet time, and choose for myself when I'm ready."

"I can't abandon you, Kathleen. Professional obligations, you know.
I must do something for you."

Kate looked at her, then at Conhoon, and grinned. "Could you find a
good strapping wife for my Uncle Con?"

"What are you saying, girl?!" Conhoon cried in horror.

"I'm saying I need help with the work. Could you do it. Fairy
Godmother?"

"I'm afraid not, dear. He'd have to arrange that through his fairy
godfather. And Mr. Carmody...well, there's a matter of nonpayment of
dues, and disorderly behavior at an assembly, and questionable dealings
with a pooka... as well as other things I prefer not to mention. Besides,
dear, I do not arrange marriages simply to procure household help."

Conhoon, pale and looking shaken, said, "Don't do such things to me,
Kate. I know you were joking, but it's a cruel joke."

Kate smiled and said nothing. Conhoon looked very uneasy. He
turned to the fairy godmother and asked, "Is there nothing you can do for
the girl?"

She shook her head. "Kathleen does not wish to marry at present, nor
does she wish my assistance when she does. What else can I do?"

"Tell me this," said Kate. "If I was in need of a ride to some prince's
grand ball, could you turn mice into horses and lizards into footmen for
me, and turn a rat into a coachman to handle it all?"

"Of course, dear. We do that all the time."

"You'll not do it here," said Conhoon. "There's not a rat nor a mouse
for a hundred leagues. And not a lizard in all of Ireland."

"Rats and mice and lizards are not essential. Anything will do. . .cats,
dogs, hedgehogs... any animal within reason."

"Pigs?" Kate asked.

"Pigs are excellent subjects. Very intelligent creatures, pigs, espe-
cially if you get them while they're young. I always enjoy doing pigs."

With a gesture to the doorway, Kate said, "Would you step outside
with me. Fairy Godmother?"

When they were gone, Conhoon allowed himself a great sigh of relief.
A crisis had come, and passed, and Kate's future was safe. She had the gift.

THE COURTSHIP OF KATE O’FARRISSEY

175

no doubt of that, and if she applied herself she would he a fine wizard in
twenty years or so. It would not be easy, what with all the work to be done
around the house. But she was young and strong. An hour or two of sleep
every now and then and a dash of cold water in the face of a morning and
she'd be ready for anything. The books would be getting harder, the
practice more intricate, but she could manage. The O'Farrisseys were
tough.

And he resolved to be generous. An hour to herself every month, to do
as she liked. No one could ask for more. If they did, they would not get it
from Conhoon. It's bad business to spoil an apprentice. Spoiled appren-
tices make soft wizards, he told himself.

He was recalling, with grim satisfaction, the hardships of his own
apprentice days when he heard the tramp of heavy feet outside the
window. More lovesick layabouts, he thought darkly, and rose to send
them on their way, but paused when Kate and her fairy godmother,
looking very pleased with themselves, entered the kitchen.

"Who's that lot outside?" he asked.

"It's only the servants," Kate said, and she and her fairy godmother
burst into laughter.

"Servants? What are you talking about, girl?"

"Come outside," said Kate, tugging him by the arm.

Outside the door stood six young men. They were obviously brothers.
All had similar round faces, heavy jowls, tumed-up noses, and pale
eyebrows over small dark eyes. They wore identical brand-new outfits. As
he studied them in wonderment, they each raised a stubby hand to their
forehead in greeting and said, "Good morning, Master Conhoon." Their
voices were deep, and they articulated their words in a grunting, nasal
manner.

"Do you remember the six shoats I was thinking of bringing to
market? Well, now they're our servants," Kate said. "And will you look
at the pigsty?"

Conhoon looked, and gasped in surprise. Where a rickety pigpen had
stood was now a tidy cottage of ample size to house six husky men in
comfort. It was a nice little piece of magic, and he unbent sufficiently to
acknowledge it as such.

"Why, thank you. Kate didn't ask for the cottage, you know. It was a

176

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

little extra present — to make up for any difficulty I may have caused, " the
fairy godmother said.

"What shall we name them?" Kate asked.

"Name the laziest one Carmody. You can call the rest whatever you
like," said Conhoon. "And will they do the work for you?"

"Once I teach them, they'll do it all."

"And how long will it take to teach them?"

"No need for you to do a thing. I'll attend to that. They'll be ready by
lunchtime," the fairy godmother said.

"Then get to my workroom, girl," said Conhoon. "You've wasted a
whole morning on foohshness. It's time you got down to your studies."

“Say ‘Ahkh.’”

Science

Pat Murphy & Paul Doherty
A VISIT TO MARS

OR MORE

than a century,
science fiction
writers have
been transporting people to Mars.

Back in 1912, Edgar Rice
Burroughs sent John Carter to Mars,
where this former officer of the
Confederate Army had many ad-
ventures and fell in love with a
princess. (Burrough's books are
among the many in which men
travel to Mars and fall in love. Pat's
favorite discovery, in our brief sm-
vey of early sf about Mars, is the
1893 novel Unveiling a Parallel: A
Romance by Alice Ilgenfritz Jones
and Ella Marchant, in which a young
man visits Mars and is shocked by
the emancipated women there. But
among them, he finds the woman
of his dreams. Go figure.)

Recently NASA sent a couple
of six- wheeled Rovers named Spirit
and Opportunity to Mars. To date,
neither vehicle has turned up any
women (princess, emancipated, or

otherwise). But these robotic ex-
plorers have returned a great deal of
information on the Martian envi-
ronment.

As part of his job at the Explor-
atorium, San Francisco's museum
of science, art, and human percep-
tion, Paul used information from
the Mars Rovers to give people a
chance to experience aspects of the
Martian environment. We thought
those of you who missed the oppor-
tunity at the Exploratorium might
like some instructions on how to
experience aspects of the Martian
environment in the comfort of your
own home. No Martian princess is
required for this experience — and
emancipated women are welcome.

Seeing Mars

A good way to experience the
look of Mars while keeping your
feet on terra firma is to don a pair
of "Blue Blocker" sunglasses. The
lenses of these sunglasses are

178

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

sandy-butterscotch in color. Put
them on, and the world around you
will look a lot more like Mars —
particularly if you are standing in
a desert area without any vegeta-
tion.

Now when John Carter arrived
on Mars, he didn't comment on the
color of the sky. He was busy fight-
ing aliens mere moments after his
arrival, so perhaps he can be for-
given for that oversight. But you, as
an armchair traveler to Mars, can
take your time in examining the
Martian sky in the photos of Mars
available on the Exploratorium's
Mars Website www.exploratorium
.edu/mars. You'll immediately no-
tice that the sky is not a lovely blue,
but rather a dusty butterscotch brown.

The Martian atmosphere is full
of dust and the dust of Mars is
butterscotch tan. This dust is pri-
marily "weathered limonite," a
brown iron oxide. Mars's surface
dust may also include red hematite,
Fe^Oj (one of the main ingredients
of rust on Earth) and magnetite,
Fe^O^, a magnetic mineral. The dust
is blown into the sky on Mars by
winds and settles out slowly. The
finest dust remains suspended for a
very long time since it is never
washed out of the air by rain.

Without this dust, the sky of
Mars would be black, as is the sky

on Earth at 1 15,000 feet above sea
level. That's the elevation at which
the Earth's atmosphere has the same
density as the atmosphere at the
surface of Mars. To get an idea of
what the clear Mars sky might look
like, glance out the window of your
airliner the next time you are on an
intercontinental flight cruising at
45,000 feet. If you look up at the sky
at that altitude, you'll see a sky
that's a blue so dark as to be almost
black. If you could fly higher the
sky would be black as it would be
on Mars if the atmosphere were free
of dust.

The dust in the Martian atmo-
sphere makes sunsets particularly
interesting. On Earth we have red
sunsets in a blue sky. The sky is
blue because blue light scatters
when it encounters molecules in
the atmosphere. Red light goes
straight, without scattering. When
you're watching the sun set, the
light traveling straight from the
sun to your eyes moves at an angle
through the Earth's atmosphere. As
the light passes through the atmo-
sphere, the hlue light scatters away,
leaving reddish light to reach your
eyes.

The color of light scattered by a
particle depends partly on the
particle's size. Molecules in Earth's
atmosphere are the right size to

SCIENCE

179

scatter blue light. Martian dust
particles, on the other hand, are the
right size to scatter red light. When
light from the setting sun passes
through the Martian atmosphere,
red light scatters and blue light
continues in the forward direction.
As a result, the setting sun on Mars
is blue-green, surrounded by the
butterscotch-colored sky.

If you visit the Exploratorium's
Mars Website to check out the sky,
spend a bit of time perusing the
other photos as well. Each Mars
Exploration Rover carries nine
black-and-white digital cameras.
One camera gives geologists a close-
up view of the Martian rocks, act-
ing as a magnifying lens. The other
eight are arranged in pairs. Views
from these paired cameras are used
to create 3-D images of the Martian
landscape. (You need two cameras
to make a 3-D view for the same
reason you need two eyes to see in
depth. Each camera provides a
slightly different view of the land-
scape. Combining these views cre-
ates a 3-D image.)

The Rovers' panoramic cam-
eras have filter wheels that rotate
in front of each lens, so that photos
can be taken through different fil-
ters. Using red, green, and blue fil-
ters, the cameras can take photos
that can be combined to make an

image that resembles what a hu-
man eye would see on Mars.

In addition, there are several
infrared filters that let the cameras
create images using infrared radia-
tion. (Infrared radiation is a form
of light that's just outside the range
of human vision.) Snakes with in-
frared vision and geologists both
appreciate the value of infrared im-
ages. Rattlesnakes and other pit vi-
pers use their infrared-sensitive pits
to make a 3-D, infrared image of the
world. In this view, warm-blooded
mice are bright against the cool
night background of desert rocks —
a handy thing if you're a snake look-
ing for diimer.

Geologists, who generally
aren't looking for mice to eat, use
infrared imaging for other purposes.
Silicate minerals that look uni-
formly reddish brown in visible light
look entirely different in the infra-
red. That's why so many images
from the Mars Rovers are taken
using infrared filters. This means
that many of the images coming
back from Mars aren't in true color
— geologists use infrared filters in-
stead of red filters so that they can
learn more about the rocks sur-
rounding the Rovers.

This use of infrared filters is a
great example of how scientists
choose to capture images using

180

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

different forms of light (including
light that's beyond the range of
human vision). In false-color infra-
red images of Earth, trees are red,
clean water is black, but rocks have
interesting and subtle shades — ob-
viously a palette of colors chosen
by a geologist.

You can look at lots and lots of
rocks in the photos that were sent
back from Mars — great fun for
geologists, but Pat thinks it gets a
bit dull for those of us raised on
Burroughs. But there are other
things to check out as well. Each
Mars Rover carries a sundial, and
images of those sundials are among
those on the Exploratorium Web-
site. Scientists use these sundials
to adjust the Rovers' panoramic
cameras, and students participat-
ing in NASA's "Red Rover Goes to
Mars" program can monitor the
sundials to track time on Mars.

On Mars, only half the light
hitting the sundial's surface comes
from the Sun; the other half comes
from the sky. When you check out
the images of the sundial on the
Exploratorium's Website, take a
close look at the shadow of the
gnomon, the upright in the center
of the sundial. The shadow is not
completely black because light from
the sky shines into the shadow.

Smelling Mars

Back in Burroughs's day, a stal-
wart hero (like John Carter) could
arrive on Mars (or Barsoom, as the
Martians called it) stark naked —
and still survive. (The mysterious
force that brought John Carter to
Mars mysteriously left his clothes
behind.) But Carter (and many of
the other visitors to Mars in early
science fiction) had no trouble
breathing the air.

It was fortunate for John Carter
that he was protected by an author
who was not noted for scientific
verisimilitude. In truth, if you were
to step naked onto the surface of
Mars, all the gas inside you would
come out through every orifice in
your body. You would remain con-
scious for ten to fifteen seconds.
Your ears would "pop" as they ad-
justed to Martian pressure. After fif-
teen seconds your blood would boil.

On top of all that, the atmo-
sphere doesn't have enough oxygen
to sustain you. The Martian atmo-
sphere is ninety-five percent car-
bon dioxide. In the Martian atmo-
sphere, only one out of a thousand
molecules is oxygen. (On Earth, it's
more like two hundred and ten out
of a thousand.) On both Earth and
Mars, most of the remainder of the
atmosphere is nitrogen and argon.

SCIENCE

181

If you want to find out what
Mars smells like, open a bottle of
unflavored soda water and take a
sniff from the neck of the bottle.
That aroma of carbon dioxide is the
smell of Mars.

At the Exploratorium we put a
block of dry ice (that's solid carbon
dioxide) into an empty fish tank.
After a while, the carbon dioxide
sublimes (making the transition
from solid ice to gas without ever
becoming liquid). Carbon dioxide
gas fills the fish tank. Since carbon
dioxide is heavier than Earth air,
the gas will stay in the tank imtil
you sweep your hand through it.

Sweep some of the carbon di-
oxide gas into your nose. Stick out
your tongue and plunge it into the
top of the tank and you will experi-
ence the tangy taste of Martian air.

Lighting Fires on Mars

If you were to lower a burning
candle into the fish tank, it would
go out. An ordinary fire, where hy-
drocarbons combine with oxygen
to produce carbon dioxide and wa-
ter vapor, will not bum in the Mar-
tian atmosphere.

But that doesn't mean you can't
have fire on Mars. Our friend Eric
Muller, a teacher at the Explorator-
ium, can make a fire that bums quite

well in a carbon dioxide atmosphere.
Eric takes two slabs of dry ice and
carves a hemispherical hollow in
the center of one block. He fills the
hollow with powdered magnesium,
lights the magnesium, and puts the
second flat block over the first. A
bright glow shines through the dry
ice blocks for a long time as the
magnesium cheerfully bums in the
carbon dioxide atmosphere.

When the fire goes out, a quick
look into the center of the dry ice
blocks reveals a collection of black
carbon and white magnesium ox-
ide. The burning magnesium rips
oxygen from the carbon dioxide in
order to bum, leaving carbon be-
hind.

There is an important life-les-
son here for Earthlings: never try to
put out a metal fire with a carbon
dioxide fire extinguisher. If you do,
you'll be spraying oxidizer onto the
burning metal.

The lesson for anyone camping
on Mars is simple: if you want to
make a campfire, don't forget to
bring along some magnesium logs.

Listening to Mars

We have a vacuum chamber at
the Exploratorium, which allows
us to reduce the pressure inside the
chamber to Martian atmospheric

182

FANTASY «>. SCIENCE FICTION

pressure. We put a tape player and a
tape recorder into the chamber at
Earth pressure and then pump the
chamber down to Martian surface
pressure, which is only about one
percent of the pressure on Earth.
(Meteorologists call this pressure
ten millibars.)

Under Martian atmospheric
conditions, the sound picked up by
the recorder gets much quieter.
When we let Earth air pressure back
into the chamber, the sound grows
loud again. Sound does travel
through the thin air of Mars, but
not as well as sound travels on Earth.
It is harder to make loud sounds
and harder to hear them.

The Mars Polar Lander carried
a microphone but it failed to land
safely so we don't have direct mea-
surements yet of the sounds of Mars.
If the recorder had worked, we might
have been able to hear the wind
whispering around the rocks.

Touching Mars

The Rovers can't transmit the
tactile sensation of Mars. Their in-
struments dust off rocks, take pho-
tos, drill into rocks, and analyze the
dust. Yet here you sit ten or more
light-minutes away from the Mar-
tian surface, longing to touch Mars
rocks.

You can fulfill that desire by

visiting the Exploratorium (which
is a lot closer than Mars). We have
a small piece of a rock from Mars.

Back in October of 1962, a me-
teorite landed about ten feet away
from a farmer in a Nigerian com
field. This forty-pound chunk of
rock, known as the Zagami meteor-
ite, was sliced up, distributed to
various museums, and studied ex-
tensively. In 1995, scientists ana-
lyzed gas contained in bubbles in
the meteorite. They discovered that
the composition of the gas matched
that of the Martian atmosphere.
Scientists now think that a comet
or asteroid slammed into Mars
about 2.5 million years ago, fling-
ing the rock that became the Zagami
meteorite into space.

An enterprising meteorite
dealer managed to trade other speci-
mens from his collection for chunks
of the Zagami meteorite — and of-
fered slivers of this Martian rock for
sale. The Exploratorium has only a
small piece because Martian mete-
orites are among the rarest rocks on
Earth. Like diamonds, they're priced
by the carat. Slivers of the Zagami
meteorite sold for hundreds of times
the price of gold.

The rock of the Zagami mete-
orite is greenish-gray basalt with
crystals big enough to see with a
geologist's hand lens. It feels rough
to the touch. It is quite a wonderful

SCIENCE

183

sensation to actually run your fin-
ger along a piece of Mars.

Worth a Visit?

The science fiction writers who
wrote about Mars when it was just a
blurry image in a telescope let their
imaginations run wild, giving Mars a
population, a breathable atmosphere,
and a network of canals. Their work
inspired kids who grew up to be
scientists interested in finding out
what Mars was really like. These
scientists and engineers (emanci-

pated women and men) sent robot
representatives to Mars. Now that
the robots have sent back a more
up-to-date portrayal of Mars, it's up
to the science fiction writers to
weave that new vision of the Red
Planet into their fiction.

To learn more about Pat
Murphy's science fiction writing,
visit her web site at www.brazen
hussies.net/muTphy. For more on
Paul Doherty's work and his latest
adventures, visit www.exo.net/
-pauld.

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Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030

One of our greatest writers, Gene Wolfe seems to be particularly fecund of late,
with short stories appearing with delightful frequency in Asimov's, Realms of
Fantasy, thither and here. Which is not to overlook the imminent publication of
his novel Wizard, a companion to his popular and well-received novel Knight, nor
should we neglect to mention that a new story collection entitled Innocents
Aboard has been published recently.

All these notes, however, serve as mere sleight-of-hand to distract you from
the following epistolary tale, a fascinating fantasy for which no introduction
could conceivably prepare readers adequately.

The Little Stranger

Dear Cousin Danny:

LEASE FORGIVE ME FOR

troubling you with another letter. I
know you understand. You are the
only family I have, and as you are

dead you probably do not mind. I am lonely, terribly lonely, hving alone
way out here. Yesterday I drove into town, and at the supermarket Brenda
told me how lucky I am. She has to check groceries all day, keep house,
and look after three children. I would love to know whether she divorced
him or he divorced her, but I do not like to ask. You know how that is.

And why. I would dearly love to know why.

I said I would trade with her if I could stand up to so much work, which
I could not, and I would take her children anytime and take care of them
for as long as she wanted. They could run through the woods, I said, play
Monopoly and Parcheesi, and explore the old road. I should have said only
the girls, hut I did not think of that in time, Danny. Not that I have
anything against you boys, but I don't know much about them or taking
care of them.

THE LITTLE STRANGER

185

One time Sally Cusick showed me her husband's fish. There was a big
lady fish and a little man fish, very shiny and silvery, and Sally said the
man fish just came and went and that was that. I said I thought that was
about how people were too, but Sally did not agree and has not had me over
since although I have had her twice and invited her three times, one time
when she said she could not come because the rain, as if rain ever stopped
her from going anywhere. She is my nearest neighbor, and I could ride my
bicycle down Miller Road and up the County Road and come anytime.

Brenda gave me the name of a plumber friend of hers. It is Jack C.
Swierzbowski. I have called him (phoned), and he says he will come.

Every time I turn on the hot water the whole house moans. I think that
when I told you about this before, Danny, I said it yelled but it is really
more of a moan. Or bellow, like a cow. It is a big house. I know you must
remember my house from when you came as a little boy and we played
store and all that. Well, probably you remember it bigger than it really is.
But it is big. Five big bedrooms and all the other rooms like the big cold
dining room. I never eat in there anymore. You and I would eat in my
merry little kitchen, in the breakfast nook.

If Brenda really sends her girls to me someday that is where we will
eat, all three crowded around the little table in the breakfast nook, and for
the first day we will make chicken soup and bake brownies and cookies.

There it goes again, and I am not even running the water. Maybe I left
it on somewhere, I will see.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny:

I do not know whether I ever told you what a relief it is to me to write
you like this, but it is. I never write to Mama or Papa because I saw them
before they were embalmed and everything, and I went to the funerals. But
I feel like you are still alive, so I can do it. I put on a stamp but no return
address. That nice Mr. Chen at the Post Office said yesterday it might go
to the Dead Letter Office, and I said yes that is where I want it to go. I did
not even smile, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud.

Mr. Swierzbowski came and worked for three hours and even got up
on the roof, three floors up. Then he turned on the water to show me and

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it was as quiet as mice. But last night it was doing it again. I do not think
I will call him again. It was almost two hundred dollars and I am so afraid
he will fall.

I went for a ramble in the woods after he left, Danny, remembering
how you and I played there. If Brenda sends her girls to stay with me for
a while, they will go out there and talk about it afterward, and I ought to
know the places.

So I started learning today. It is sad to see how much was fields and
farms back in the colonial times. Now it is woods all over again and the
Mohawks would feel right at home, but they are gone. You can still see the
square hole where the old Hopkins place stood, but it is filling up. Father
used to say that the Hopkins were the last people around except us. He did
not count the Cusicks, because it was too far to see their smoke. When
they had a fire in the fireplace, I mean, or burned their leaves. Only I think
probably Mr. Swierzbowski could have seen it when he was up on the roof.
It is not so far that I could not ride over on my bicycle, Danny, and Sally
drives all over.

She does not even feed those fish. Her husband does it.

It might be nicer if I had another cat. I used to have Pussums. She was
as nice a cat as ever you saw, a calico and oh so pretty. I did not have her
fixed or anything because I thought I would find a nice boy calico for her
and they would have pretty kittens. I would give away the ones that were
not calicos themselves, but I would keep the calicos and have three or four
or even five of them. And then the mice would not come inside in the
winter the way they do. It was terrible last winter.

Only Pussums got big and wanted a boy cat, but I had not found one
for her yet. And one day she just disappeared. I should have gotten another
cat then, I think. I did not because I kept thinking Pussums would come
back after she had her little fling. Which she has not done, and it is more
than three years.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny,

Here I am, bothering you again. But a lot has happened since I wrote
a week ago, and I really do need to tell somebody.

THE LITTLE STRANGER

187

One night I was lying in bed and I heard the house moan in the way
I have told you about. A few minutes later it did it again, and it did it again
a few minutes after that.

Pretty soon I understood why it was so unhappy, Danny. It is just like
Pussums. It wants another house. You were a man and would not
understand, but I knew. It was not from thinking, even if I think a lot and
am good at it, my teachers always said. I knew. So I got out of bed and told
it as loud as I could that I would get it another house. At first I said a tool
shed, but that didn't work, so a house. A little house, but a house.

Well, that is what I am going to do. I am going to talk to people who
build houses and have a cottage built right here on my own property. I
know they will probably cheat me, but I will have to bear it and keep the
cheating as small as I can. I mean to talk to Mr. LaPointe at the bank about
it. I know he will advise me, and he is honest.

So that is one thing, but just one. There is another one.

An old truck was going up Miller Road towing a big trailer when it
broke down right in front of my house here. There were two men in the
truck and two ladies in the trailer, and one lady has a little baby. They are
all dark, with curly black hair and big smiles, even the baby.

The older man rang my bell and explained what had happened. He
asked if he could pull his truck and the trailer up onto my front lawn until
he and the other man could get the truck fixed.

I said all right, but then I thought what if they want to come inside to
use the bathroom? Should I let them in? I decided I did not know them well
enough to make up my mind about that, but you cannot keep somebody
who needs to come inside quickly standing on the porch while you ask
questions. I went into the parlor and watched them awhile through the
window. They had put the baby on the lawn. The young lady was steering,
and the men and the older lady were pushing, because the lawn is higher
than Miller Road, and there was the ditch and everything. I could see
everyone was working hard, so I made lemonade.

When it was ready they had tied a big chain around the biggest maple.
There were zigzag ropes between the chain and their truck, turning and
turning around little wheels, and they were pulling on the other end. It
was working, too. They had already gotten the front end of their truck up
on the grass. I went out and we had lemonade and talked awhile.

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The older man is Mr. Zoltan, and the younger one is Johnny. The older
lady is Mannar. Or something like that. I cannot say it like they do. She
is Mrs. Zoltan. The young lady is Mrs. Johnny, and the baby is hers. Her
name is Ivy, just like mine. Her mother's name is Suzette, and she is really
quite pretty.

I never said about the bathroom, but I decided if they asked I would
let them come in, especially Suzette. Only they never have. I think they
are going in the woods. Now I am somewhat scared about going to bed.
What if they break in while I am sleeping?

Well, I just went into the parlor and watched them through the
window, and both men are working really hard on their truck, with
flashlights to see and the engine in pieces. So I do not think they will break
in tonight. They will be too tired. I will write to you again really soon,
Danny.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

P.S. The house has been quiet as mice ever since they came.

Dear Cousin Danny:

I have such good news! You will not believe how nicely everything is
working out. Mr. Zoltan came to breakfast this morning. It was just bacon
and eggs and toast, but he liked it. He drinks a lot of coffee. He said they
were poor people, and they need parts for their truck. I said I did not have
any, which was the truth. Then he asked if they could stay here until they
could earn enough to fix their truck. Not in my house, I said. He said they
would live in their trailer, like always, but if they parked it someplace
without permission the police would make them leave, and they could not
leave here so they would go to jail.

That was when I got my wonderful idea. I get many wonderful ideas,
Danny, but this was the most wonderful ever. I explained to Mr. Zoltan
that I wanted another house built on my property. Not a big house, just a
little one. I said that if he and Johnny would build it for me in their spare
time, I would let them stay.

Mr. Zoltan looked at me in a worried kind of way, then looked over
at the stove. I said if they could fix a truck they could build a house, and
would they do it?

THE LinXE STRANGER

189

He told me all over again how poor they were . He said they would have
to earn enough to buy wood and shingles and so forth. They could find
some things at the dump, he said, but they would have to buy the rest. It
might take a long time.

I said that I would not ask them to buy the material, only to build me
a little old-fashioned cottage like the picture I showed him. I would buy
the material for them. That made him happy, and he agreed at once. He
wanted to know where I wanted it built. I said you look around and decide
where you think it ought to be and tell me.

So you see, Danny, why I said I had wonderful news. The Willis
Lumber Co. in town will not cheat me more than they cheat everybody,
and Mr. Zoltan and Johnny will not cheat me either, because I am not
going to give them any money at all.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny,

I had not planned to pester you with another letter as soon as this, but
I just have to tell somebody how well my plan is going. Mr. Zoltan came
to tell me he had found a foundation in the woods we could use. I knew
it was the old Hopkins place, but I asked him questions about it, and it
was. Then I told him we could not use it because it was not on my land.

It took all the happiness right out of him. He explained that digging
the foundation and building the things to hold the cement were going to
be some of the hardest work and would take a long while. The old Hopkins
foundation is stone, big stone blocks like tombstones, and he said it was
as good as new. So I thought, well, I was going to have to pay for the cement
and picks and shovels and all that anyway, so perhaps I could buy the land.

When Mr. Zoltan had left, I called up (phoned) Mr. LaPointe and said
I wanted the land where the house had been, and a patch in between so I
could get there without going off my property. He said how high are you
willing to go?

I thought about that, and looked at my bank books and the checking
account and all that. I talked to that foreign woman at Merrill Lynch, too.
Finally I called Mr. LaPointe back and said fifty thousand. He said he
thought he could get it for me cheaper. By that time my mind was made

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up. I have a hard time making up my mind about things sometime, Danny,
but when I do it is done. I said to buy me as much of the Hopkins property
as fifty thousand would get, only to make sure where the old house was,
was the part 1 was buying.

After that Mr. Zoltan came back twice to talk about other places, but
1 said wait.

Then (this was Tuesday afternoon, I think, Danny) Mr. LaPointe
called me. (Phoned.) He was so happy it made me happy for him. He said
he had gotten the whole property for thirty-nine thousand five hundred.
The whole farm, only it is all woods now. I went right out and told Johnny,
who was working on the truck. And that afternoon he and Mr. Zoltan
started shoveling the cellar out. 1 know they did because I went to see, and
it is very black soil, good garden soil I would say and mostly rotted leaves.
Compost is what the magazines call it.

I showed them pictures of houses like the one they are going to build
for me, and they said they would go to the Willis Lumber Company and
buy enough lumber to get started as soon as their truck would run again
if I would give them the money. I said no, we will go in my car now and
the company will deliver it for a little more money.

Which is what we did. You know how bossy I can be. Suzette needed
a ride into town, too, so there were four of us on the drive in. She is opening
a shop there to make money. It says "Psychic." I let her out in front of it,
and Mr. Zoltan, Johnny, and I went to Willis's. I made them tell me what
everything they wanted was and why they wanted it, but I promised that
they could keep the scroll saw and the other new tools. We bought a whole
keg of nails! And ever so much wood, Danny.

Now I am sitting in the Sun Room to write this, and 1 can hear their
hammers, way off in the woods. If they get quiet before dark, I will go out
there and see what the matter is.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny,

I haven't even mailed that other letter, and here I am writing again.
But the envelope is sealed and I do not wish to tear it open. You will get
two letters at once, which I hope you will not mind too much.

THE LITTLE STRANGER

191

There are reasons for this, a big one and a little one. I am going to tell
you the little one first, so the big one does not squash it flat. It is that the
young lady called me (phoned). She has a cell phone. She said she was
Yvonne. I said who? She said Yvonne as plain as anything and she was
staying with me. (This is what she said, Danny. It is not true.) Then she
said I had given her a ride into town that morning, so I knew it was Suzette.
She said she was ready to come home now and there was a friend who
would drive her, only she called her a client. But she did not know the
roads and neither did her friend.

So I gave her directions, how to find the County Road and how you
turn on Miller Road and so on. I know you know already, so I will not
repeat everything. Then I sat down and thought hard about the young lady.
Could I have remembered her name wrong? I know I could not, not as
wrong as that.

So she is fooling her friend, and if she will fool her friend she will fool
me. I would like to talk with Marmar about her, but I know Marmar will
not talk if I just come up and ask. I must think of something, and writing
you these letters helps.

It helps more now, because I know that you get them and read them,
Danny. That is my big thing. I know it because I saw you last night. You
must have thought I was sleeping. I could see you were being very quiet
so as not to wake me up.

But I was awake, sitting by the window looking down at the trailer and
Mr. Zoltan's truck. I could not sleep. That is how it is with folks my age.
We take naps during the day, and then we cannot sleep at night. I think
that it is because God is getting us ready for the grave. Is that right? Did
He ever tell you?

You went into the woods to look at my new house. I saw you go and
sat up waiting for you to come back. The moon was low and bright when
you did, and I got to see it right through you, which was very pretty and
something I had never seen before at all. You looked at their truck and
even went into the trailer without opening the door, which must be very
handy when you are carrying a basket of laundry or grocery bags. When
you went back into the woods I waited for you to come out for a while. I
thought about coming downstairs and saying hello, but I knew you would
think you woke me up. You did not, I just did, and it would not have been

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fair for me to make you feel guilty, as I am sure you would even if I said
not to.

But I want you to know that I am often awake, and there is no reason
I could not put on a robe and have a nice chat. I could make tea or anything
like that which you might like, Danny.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny,

I have had the nicest time! I must tell you. Yvonne (Suzette) was in
town at her shop, and Marmar had ever so much work to do, cooking and
cleaning her trailer. So I said I would look after little Ivy for a while. We
played peekaboo and had a bottle, and I changed her three times. She is
really the dearest little baby in the world! Of course I had to give her back
eventually, which I did not like to do. But Mr. Zoltan came and wanted
her, and I gave her to him. He looked pale and ill, I thought, and his hands
shook. So I did not like to and I am afraid he will give little Ivy something.
A really bad cold or the flu. But he is her grandfather, so I did.

Then something very, very odd happened. I cannot explain it and
don't even know who to ask. I got to thinking about you, and how much
I would like to talk to you. And it came to me that you might not want to
come into my house unless you were invited. I know you could walk right
through my door like you did into Mr. Zoltan's trailer, but I thought you
would probably not want to. I thought of inviting you in this letter, and
I do. [ust come in anytime, Danny.

What is more, I remembered about the rock. There is this big rock in
my flower bed close to the front porch, and I keep it there because it was
in Mama's. She had it there because Papa always kept a key under it in case
he lost his. Only when he died she took the key away for fear someone
would find it and come in.

And I thought, well, I want Cousin Danny to come in and talk. So I will
just put a key there for him to find, and tell him it is there. I got my extra key
from the desk in Papa's study and went outside to put it under the rock.

But when I picked that rock up, there was foreign writing on the
bottom. It was yellow chalk, I think, very ugly and new-looking. Just
looking at it made me feel sick. I took that rock inside right away and

THE LITTLE STRANGER

193

washed it in the sink. It made me feel a lot better, and I think it made the
rock feel better too. You know what I mean.

Anyway, that rock is all nice and clean now, Danny, and I have put the
key under it as a sign that you are welcome to come in anytime. If you pick
up the rock and there is bad writing on the bottom, I did not put it there.
I do not even have any yellow chalk. Tell me when you come in, and I will
wash it off.

But the main thing was little Ivy. She is the darlingest baby, and I just
love her.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny,

In some ways it has been very nice here today, but in others Not So
Nice. Let me begin with one of the nice ones, which is Pusson. I went out
to see how my new little house was. I had heard a lot of sawing and
hammering that morning, and then it had stopped, and I thought I should
see what the trouble was. Well, Danny, you would never guess.

It was a cat. Just a cat, not very big and really quite friendly once he
gets to know you. He was up on the plywood that Mr. Zoltan and Johnny
are going to nail the shingles on. They were afraid of him. Two big men afraid
of a little cat! I thought it was silly and said Pussums, Pussums, Pussums!
Which was the way I used to call my old cat, and this nice young cat came
right down. I let him smell my fingers, and soon he was rubbing my legs.

Yes, Danny, I took Pusson home with me. I think he is really a calico
cat under all the black. Other cats are not so friendly and sweet. I have kept
Pussums's cat box all ready in case she ever comes home, and Pusson
knows how to use it already. So I think he is calico underneath. Pussums
found the boy cat she was looking for, and they had children, and this is
her son, coming back to the Old Home Place to see how it was when his
mama was young. You will think I am just a silly old woman for writing
all that, but it could have happened, and since I want to believe it, why
should I not be happy?

Besides there is nobody out here for Pusson to belong to except Sally
Cusick and she should not have a cat because of aU the fish. So he can hve here
with me, and if Sally ever comes he can hide under the sofa in the parlor.

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The not so nice part is Mr. Cherigate. I did not know him at all until
he pulled up in his big car. He was perfectly friendly and drank my tea and
petted Pusson, but he told me very firmly that I cannot have Mr. Zoltan
and Johnny put in the pipes and the electric like 1 had planned. Mr.
Cherigate is a Building Inspector for the county. He showed me his badge
and gave me his card, which I still have on the nice hallmarked silver tray
that used to be Mama's when you were here. I must have a licensed
plumber for the pipes and an electrician for the electric. I explained that
Mr. LaPointe at the bank did not think I would need a building permit way
out here, and he said I did not, but a building that people might live in must
pass inspection and ever so much more.

Naturally I called Mr. Swierzbowski (phoned). He will do the plumb-
ing, and he will send his friend Mr. Caminiti for the electric. I am sure it
will cost ever so much, but I don't think I will be able to get Mr. Zoltan
to pay, although I will try.

I am not sure if this is the worst thing or just a funny thing, Danny.
Perhaps I will know tomorrow, and if I do I will tell myself that I should
have waited and told you all about it then. But I am going to tell you now
and let you decide. While Mr. Cherigate was drinking my tea he asked if
I knew I was a witch. I thought about it and said I did not, but if it meant
I get to ride through the air on a broom and throw down candy to the boys
and girls I might do it. He laughed and said no, a real witch, one that cast
spells and sours milk while it is still in the cow.

Of course I said I could not do that and I did not think anybody else
could either. Mr. Cherigate said there was a rumor going around town that
said that, and I explained that there was nobody rooming with me except
Pusson. I should have said little Ivy sometimes, too, Danny, but I forgot.

But Mr. Cherigate meant rumor. So I had made a silly mistake that I
would not have made if it were not for Yvonne (Suzette) telling people she
lived here. Then Mr. Cherigate said that he had heard it from his wife, who
heard it from a fortune-teller. I said is that the same as psychic and he said
it was. So it was Suzette after all! I will talk to her about this the first
chance I get, Danny, and I will write you again soon to tell you what I said
and what she said.

Hugs!

Your cousin Ivy

THE LITTLE STRANGER

195

Dear Cousin Danny,

You will not believe what I am going to tell you in this letter, but it
is true, every bit.

When I had finished the letter I wrote yesterday, I waited for some-
body to bring Suzette (Yvonne) home. Then I went out to the trailer to talk
to her. She was inside, and Marmar said she was nursing httle Ivy. 1
certainly did not want to interrupt that and perhaps make httle Ivy cry, so
I went to my new little house to see whether Mr. Swierzbowski or Mr.
Caminiti had come.

They had not, but Mr. Zoltan and Johnny were there sawing fretwork.
When Mr. Zoltan saw me, he got down on his knees. When Johnny saw
that, he did too. They begged me to let them use their truck again. If they
had their truck, they could go to the dump and find things for me, and buy
nails and shingles whenever they needed them, and bring them back here
in their truck. It was hard for me to understand everything they said,
Danny, because Mr. Zoltan's English is not even as good as Mr. Chen's (at
the Post Office). And Johnny would not look at me, or talk very loud either.
But that was what they wanted, and when I understood I said of course
they could use their truck, go right ahead.

They started thanking me then, over and over, and crying. And while
they were doing that, we heard a funny noise from the direction of my
house. I did not know what it was. You will think it silly of me, Danny,
I know. But 1 did not. Mr. Zoltan and Johnny knew at once and ran
toward it. I worried for a minute that someone might come and take the
saws and hammers and things they were leaving behind. And I thought,
they are not my things, and Johnny and Mr. Zoltan ran right off and left
them so why should not I? No one asked me to watch them while they
were gone.

By that time even Mr. Zoltan was out of sight. Johnny was out of sight
almost before he began to run, because Johnny can run very fast. I did not
run. I walked, but I walked fast, carrying Pusson and petting him as I went
along. He is very nice for a black cat, Danny, about as nice as any cat that
is not calico can be.

When I got back to my big house, Mr. Zoltan's trailer was stUl there,
but Mr. Zoltan's truck was gone. That was when I knew what the noise
we heard had been. It was the noise of the engine starting. Mr. Zoltan and

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Johnny had heard it many times, so they knew what it was. I had not, so
I did not know.

Marmar said Suzette (Yvonne) had taken it. She thought she had run
away. I said I did not think so, because I think that she needed to visit her
little store, and that if Johnny telephoned her there in a few minutes she
would be there. Johnny did not think so. Marmar said we would never see
her again and little Ivy cried. Zoltan said I could get her back, but he would
not say how.

After that, I decided to telephone myself, but I did not tell them that
because I did not want them to think I was interfering.

That was when Mr. Swierzbowski came to talk about plumbing for
my new little stranger. I made Mr. Zoltan and Johnny go back to it with
us, so they could show Mr. Swierzbowski what needed to be done. There
were some trees that would have to be cut for the septic tank, and a lot
more that would have to be cut so Mr. Swierzbowski could bring in his big
digging machine. I do not like trees being cut, so I said Mr. Zoltan and
Johnny would dig it with shovels. They looked very despondent when I
said this, so I said that if they would I would get their truck back or get
them a new one. I said it because I do not think Suzette (Yvonne) has really
run away and left her baby.

After that I came back here and Pusson and I called (phoned) Yvonne's
store. There was no answer, so I am writing this letter to you instead. As
soon I sign it and address your envelope and find a stamp for it, I will try
again.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny:

I have been so busy these past few days that I have not written. I am
terribly sorry, but I have not even had a chance to go to the post office to
buy Mr. Chen's stamps. Little Ivy is sleeping now. I think that she is more
used to me, or perhaps lam more used to her. But she is sleeping like a little
angel, with Pusson curled up beside her. I would take a picture if I could
only find my camera, which is not in the kitchen cabinet or the library or
anywhere.

But I have stopped trying to remember where my camera might be.

THE LITTLE STRANGER

197

and started trying to remember what I have told you and what happened
after that letter was out in the big tin box, with the flag up. You know that
Suzette (Yvonne) took Mr. Zoltan's truck. He is angry about it and so is
Johnny. Suzette is not even Mr. Zoltan's daughter, only his daughter-in-
law. I have talked to them, and Marmar is Mr. Zoltan's wife, just like I
thought. Suzette (Yvonne) is Johnny's wife. But Johnny says was, and says
he will beat her for a week. I do not see how he can beat her if he is going
to divorce her. He says he will go to the king and get a divorce. Do you
think he means George III, Danny? George III is dead, but then you are
dead too, so perhaps George III can still divorce people. Johnny is Mr.
Zoltan's son, and Marmar's.

It is funny, sometimes, how these things work out. When I had called
Suzette's (Yvonne's) store several times and gotten no answer, and talked
to Marmar besides Mr. Zoltan and Johnny, and called the store twice
more, I felt sure that Suzette had stolen Mr. Zoltan's truck and was not
ever going to bring it back.

So she had really stolen my truck because I had promised Mr. Zoltan
and Johnny that I would get them a new one if we could not get their old
one back. Besides, their trailer was parked in my front yard, and it still is.
I like them and they have never asked to use my bathroom, not even once.
But I do not want them living in my front yard until I am old and gray,
which is now.

So I called the police. I described my truck to the nice policeman, and
when he asked about license plates I said it did not have any because I had
noticed that before Suzette took it. I said it had just been parked on my
property but I had gotten two men to work on it, and as soon as it would
run Suzette had run off with it. You can see that I told the nice policeman
nothing but the truth, Danny. All that was just as true as I could make it
without getting all complicated. I spoke clearly and enunciated plainly,
and the nice policeman never argued with me about a thing.

Then he asked me about Suzette. I told him how old she was, and
pretty, and hlack hair. And I explained that she was the wife of one of the
men who had been working on my truck and building a new little house
for me. That was fine too, Danny, and perhaps I ought to have left it at that,
hut I did not, and that seemed like it might be a mistake for a while. I told
him that her professional name was Yvonne. Which it was.

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He became very interested and asked about her store, so I told him
where it was and that I had never gone in there to buy anything. He said
that there was a Mr. Bunco who would want to hear about Yvonne. I said
Mr. Bunco could come out and talk to me anytime and I would tell him
all I could, and I told him where I live.

After that I fixed dinner, which was macaroni-and-cheese and salad
from my garden with canned salmon in it for me, and more salmon for
Pusson. It was very good, too.

Pusson had only just finished saying thank you when we heard a
police car. I went outside because I thought I ought to show the policemen
where the truck had been, and I was just in time to see Mr. Zoltan and
Marmar running into the woods. Johnny was gone already. I know he can
run much faster. Little Ivy was crying, so I went into their trailer and
picked her up. I rocked her, and she quieted down right away. She is such
a good haby, Danny. You would never believe how good she is.

I told the lady who came with the policeman that I had been expecting
Mr. Bunco. And she said she was Miz Bunco and that would have to do. But
she gave me her card, and she was only fooling. Her name is really Sergeant
Lois B. Anderson, unless it was someone else's card. She asked about little
Ivy, and I explained that I was taking care of her while Suzette (Yvonne)
was away stealing my truck. She said she would tell D.C. and F.S. and they
would take her off my hands. I do not know who F.S. is, Danny, but D.C.
is the District of Columbia which means the president. He looks like a
very nice man, I know. Still, Danny, he is very busy and may not know
how to take care of children. So I said that I did not want little Ivy taken
off my hands, that I like her and she likes me, which is the truth. Then Miz
Anderson said we ought to go inside where I could sit down, and perhaps
little Ivy's diaper needed changing.

Miz Anderson held her while I put water on for tea and we had a nice
talk. She said the president would put little Ivy in a faster home, and that
might not be the hest thing for her. Some faster homes were nice and some
not so nice, she said. I did not like the idea of little Ivy living in another
trailer, and it seems to me that one that went fast would be worse than Mr.
Zoltan's, which does not move at all hut is terribly crowded and smelly.
So I said why not just let me keep her, she will be right here and perhaps
Suzette will come back?

THE LITTLE STRANGER

199

Miz Anderson and I agreed that might be better, and Miz Anderson
took her card and wrote call at once if Yvonne returns for baby on the back
of it.

So little Ivy is mine now, Danny. Another bttle stranger is what I said
to Pusson, who is a little stranger himself and delighted. I have told
Marmar that I have to keep her until Suzette (Yvonne) comes back for her.
I do not think Marmar likes that very much, but Mr. Zoltan and Johnny
are on my side.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

Dear Cousin Danny:

It has been days and days since I wrote last. I have been so busy! My
little house is finished now, and some nice children came to see me today.
Their names are Hank and Greta, isn't that nice? They are twins, and their
mother loves old movies. They are ever so cute, and we had a wonderful
time together. They have promised to come back and see me again. I made
them promise that before they left, Danny, and they did. I am so looking
forward to it.

So that is what I wanted to write you about. But I should have written
before, because I have ever so much wonderful news. My little house is
finished! Isn't that nice? And little Ivy is still with me, which is even nicer.
I will give my little stranger back to her mother, of course, if her mother
(Suzette) ever comes back. I suppose I'll have to, but I won't like it.

I call her the little stranger, and then I have to remind myself there are
really three. That is little Ivy, Pusson, and the first little stranger ever, my
new little house. But, Cousin Danny, there are five now, because I must
include Hank and Greta, who are such sweet httle strangers. I could just
eat them up!

After Ivy got settled down for her nap this morning, I went to my new
little house (it has a name now and I will tell you in a minute) to see if the
nice lady from the department store had brought my new furniture yet.
And out in front of my new little house were the sweetest children you
ever saw, little towheads about seven or eight. I said hello and they said
hello, and I asked their names, and they wanted to know if my little house
was made of gingerbread.

200

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

I explained that there was a lot of gingerbread on it, because that is
what you call the lovely old-fashioned woodwork Mr. Zoltan and Johnny
made for me. Danny, I had to hold each of them up so they could feel it and
see it was not the kind of gingerbread you eat! Can you imagine?

After that we went inside, and I told them all about the nice big
Navigator car you got for me from Mr. Cherigate, the building inspector.
How hard it was to get him to stand up, and how I promised I would stop
the bleeding and walk him out of my cute little Gingerbread House and
never tell anyone what happened if he would give me his car for Mr.
Zoltan. But I am not breaking my promise by talking about it to you in this
letter, because you know already. He was so startled when you and that
Hopkins girl joined us that he ran into the pantry and bumped his nose on
a shelf trying to get out, remember? I still laugh when I think of it, but it
was not really funny at all until I made it stop bleeding. Anyway Mr.
Caminiti has come and fixed what he had put in wrong, and there are
lights, ever so pretty when they shine out through all the trees.

But I just told Hank and Greta that a nice man had given me a big black
car for what I did, bigger than Mr. Zoltan's truck had been. And I had given
it to Mr, Zoltan and Johnny for building my house. It was too big for me
anyway, and I have my own car. I do not think I could ever drive a big thing
like that.

Hank and Greta liked my new little house so much that I have decided
to call it Gingerbread House. Now I wUl never forget them, and I will find
somebody to paint a sign saying that and put it on my little house, too.

But I was worried about little Ivy. I do not like to leave her alone for
a long time, and the time was getting long. So I made Hank and Greta come
back with me to this big house. I showed them little Ivy, and I showed
them to little Ivy, too! She liked them and laughed and made all sorts of
baby noises. Pusson told me her diaper needed changing, and Greta
changed while Hank and I helped. After that, we baked gingerbread men
and played with little Ivy, and played checkers with our gingerbread men,
too, breaking off heads and things to make them fit on the squares. You
could eat the cookies you captured, but if you did you could not use them
to crown your kings. Hank ate all his, so Greta beat him. I did too. By that
time it was getting dark, so I showed them how I could make fire fly out
of Pusson's fur.

THE LITTLE STRANGER

201

Then we went back to Gingerbread House, and Miz Macy had brought
the furniture and set it up like she promised, just like magic. The children
were amazed and ever so pleased. Hank wanted to know if they could
come back on Halloween, and Greta said no, she will be busy then.

So I said I hoped 1 would be very busy with little trick-or-treaters, but
I would save special treats for them. Children never come, Danny, but I
did not want Greta to feel badly. So perhaps she and Hank will come then.
I hope so. Oh, I do! It has been ever so long since the children came here.

Hugs,

Your cousin Ivy

P.S. Brenda called while I was looking for your envelope. Hank and Greta
are hers! And they had come home very late, she said, full of stories about
baking cookies with a witch in the woods. Sally Cusick gave her my
number and told her I might know something since I lived out this way.
Of course I said my goodness there are no witches out here.

Only me. ^

Coming Attractions

The calendar says that 2004 is the year of the monkey, but around
here, it sure looks like the year of the dog. Paolo Bacigalupi found one in
the ruins of the future, Alex Irvine solved a mystery thanks to a ghost
borzoi, Bradley Denton took us inside the mind of an enlisted labradoodle,
and next month we'll meet the smartest of 'em all, an Afghan hound who's
determined to sniff out "The Bad Hamburger" in the story of the same
name by Matthew Jarpe and Jonathan Andrew Sheen.

We've also been saving for you a little holiday present — 'tis the
season, and all that. This year's gift comes to you from Michael Libling,
whose "Christmas in the Catskills" might just make you check all the
locks on the doors twice.

The other holiday gifts aren't all wrapped just yet, but we do expect
to have the results from our latest contest next month, and soon we'll be
bringing you new stories by Paul Di Filippo, Elizabeth Hand, Bruce
Sterling, and Matthew Hughes. If you want to share the joy this season,
remember that a subscription to Fe)SF is a great gift for the holidays that
will be enjoyed throughout the year.

Richard Chwedyk introduced us to the amiable saurs in our January 2001 issue
and followed it with “Bronte’s Egg” in our August 2002 issue. You need not have
read either of the two previous stories to enjoy this one. but if you have read them,
well, you're probably going to ignore these header notes and rush right into the
story anyway, so let’s not even finish this thought. Lower the drawbridge and
enter Tibor’s castle. ..and behold what lies within!

In Tibor’s
Cardboard Castle

By Richard Chwedyk

IBOR STEPPED OUT OF HIS

cardboard box and walked to the edge of
the desk.

"Tibor's universe!" he declared, as
if he had recently been challenged on this point.

The desk on which the box sat was right up against the window in the
second floor "workroom" of the old neo-Victorian house where the saurs
lived. There were two other desks in the room: one in the comer near the
door, where Preston worked at his keyboard and display screen; the other
was directly across the room from Tibor's — Geraldine's desk, on which
her cardboard box sat, her "lab."

Tibor spoke as if making a general proclamation, but he stared
straight at Geraldine's lab.

"Tibor's universe!" — more as if claiming authorship than owner-

ship.

Across the room, through the little doorway cut from the cardboard,
one could see lights flickering and shivering like a miniature thunder-
storm inside Geraldine's lab — until Tibor spoke. The lights stopped.

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

203

Geraldine stuck her head out, smiling as if pleased with a very private joke
— a joke that was on everyone else.

She walked slowly but directly to the edge of her desk.

"My universe," she said in a voice that was, as usual, barely audible:
that made you doubt you'd heard it at all, except that you heard it so
clearly. Her reply was confident, and it was more than a challenge: it was
a gauntlet.

"Tibor's universe," Tibor replied firmly. It was his custom to refer to
himself only in the third person — and he insisted on pronouncing the first
syllable to rhyme with "eye" and the second to rhyme with "saur." No
force of logic or dictionary citation could convince him otherwise.

They stood there, at the edges of their desks, as if the room was a
valley between them. They were both about the same size, which was
small — designed to look like the great apatosaurs of the Jurassic Era (in
a cartoonish sort of way, and their tails, alas, were short and stumpy), but
each could just about fit in your open hand, from the heel of your palm to
the end of your fingers.

Geraldine waited until Tibor looked ready to rear back in a moment
of triumph.

And then she said: "Geraldine's universe."

Tibor scowled at Geraldine — but he always scowled. His brows were
permanently knit. He inhaled as if the force of his breath would strengthen
the force of his words.

"Tibor's universe!"

His voice was a little louder than Geraldine's, but not by much. Not
only did it have that same diffuse quality, but a certain tinniness too, a slightly
artificial edge, as if he had taken elocution lessons from a voice synthesizer.

Geraldine paused a little longer, like an orchestra conductor exagger-
ating the rest before a coda.

"Geraldine's" — without change in pitch or volume.

A brief but distinctly visible shudder ran through Tibor.

"Tibor's!"

His name hung in the space between the desks like a tiny puff of
smoke with an exclamation point attached to it —

— Until it was answered by "Geraldine's," — and the little puff
disintegrated.

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Tiber's!"

"Geraldine's."

"Tiboz’sl"

"Geraldine's."

As much as they argued over it, the universe seemed very far away
from them — it might as well have been an errant checker that had fallen
off the board and rolled into a comer.

But if the universe was far away, it was not quite out of earshot.

Preston, on the comer desk, sighed at the distraction. The dark green
theropod, who had a somewhat rounder and larger head than most
tyrannosaurs, was for once not working on one of his novels, but reading
over a list of questions submitted to him by a graduate student. This
graduate student wanted to know about his life, his influences, his writing
habits and his "personal philosophy."

That last part was the most troublesome. He knew the answers to the
other questions, though he wasn't sure he was ready to share them. What
would happen if his readers knew that the eight novels written by "Ellis
Lawrence Cartwright" were the work of a tyrannosaurid no more than half
a meter tall who was manufactured in the factory /lab of a toy company?
Who now lived in an old house out past the sprawl of a great megalopolis
with a hundred-odd other "saurs"? By rights, he shouldn't exist at all,
much less have written eight novels.

But that last question: his "philosophy. " He had one, certainly, but he
couldn't say what it was.

And the duel going on between Tibor and Geraldine wouldn't bring
him any closer to an answer.

On the floor, in the center of the room, Agnes watched over everyone
and everything. She was a gray stegosaurus, about forty centimeters long,
and if the universe was created by Tibor, or Geraldine, or "some other
idiot" (as she would have put it), Agnes was its guardian and its judge, self-
appointed.

And, hearing the exchange between Geraldine and Tibor, she was not
pleased.

"They do it to annoy me, " she muttered to her mate, Sluggo, a slightly
smaller gray stegosaur who stood next to her. "Just to annoy me!"

"Agnes?" Sluggo spoke apprehensively. It had been his job for years

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

205

to calm his mate and reassure her, and it never deterred him that at this one
job he had consistently failed. "I don't think they even know you're here."

She narrowed her gaze as she stared up at them. "They know! They
know damn well who's here!"

A small hadrosaur named Ace rode around the room on a shoe-sized,
battery-powered contraption called a "skate," which many of the little
ones used to get around what was for them a leviathan of a house.

"Hey!" Agnes called to him. "Slow that thing down! You might hurt
someone!"

Ace pretended not to hear her and skated one more circuit of the room
before rolling out the door.

He also pretended not to hear the battle between Geraldine and Tiber
above him.

To Agnes's right, a short, somewhat owlish theropod with a
down turned snout named Alphonse had gathered an audience: the tricer-
atops couple, Charlie and Rosie, and two other stegosaurs named Elliot
and Veronica. Alphonse listened to a tiny digital radio with a pocket phone
at the ready, waiting for the ImpacNewzRadio Daily Trivia Question. If he
could answer today's question correctly he would set a new record. He was
not interested in an argument that consisted almost entirely of the
possessives of two proper names.

But Charlie looked up at Tibor, who from that angle was backlit by the
early summer afternoon sunlight — a silhouette, tiny and severe.

"When do you think they'll stop?" he whispered to Rosie.

"Geraldine," Rosie whispered back, "will stop him."

In general, the other saurs tried, really tried, not to pay any attention
to Geraldine and Tibor, or anything that happened on those two desks,
with their cardboard boxes.

It had been so since they first arrived. Before he was brought to the
liouse, Tibor arrived at an Atherton Foundation office in a cat carrier with
several other saurs, in the custody of a bewildered, flustered woman who
found them scrabbling with squirrels and robins for the contents of her
feeder. Tibor wore a little green plastic "something" on his head — it
could have been a very large, rimmed thimble, if such a thing existed, or
n doll-house-sized flower pot — hecalledit "Tibor's hat"; andhe hadatiny
children's picture book: I Am a Big Dinosaur — "Tibor's book."

206

FANTASY &. SCIENCE FICTION

Geraldine, on the other hand, was brought right up to the doorstep in
the middle of the night — like a foundling or a terrorist's bomb — by
someone who managed to elude detection by the Reggiesystem security
protocols. That "someone" also left a note, written in a very shaky hand:
Geraldine. Please be careful.

That was as much as anyone knew about them previous to their
arrival at the house.

Tibor's cardboard box was big, like the ones used to ship large
electronic devices. It was hard to say what it had originally contained: all
the printing and manufacturer's logos on the box had been scribbled out
and replaced with a terse, angry scrawl of a name —

Tibor!

Property of Tibor!

Keep out! Tibor's!

Above the little cut-out doorway, printed in much smaller, but still
adamant, lettering: Tibor's Castle.

In truth, it looked nothing like a castle. It had no battlements, no
towers, no walls, no moat. No effort had been made even to draw those
elements on the surface and make it seem more castle-like by some
tiompe I'oeil effect. But the other saurs thought of it as a castle and
nothing else.

That point was estabhshed one night when the saurs — big and small
— were gathered in front of the video in the parlor, watching one of the
artifacts of the former century: a movie called Citizen Kane, considered
quite a masterpiece in its time. As they watched the beginning, with its
image of the shadowy castle on the hilltop of the Xanadu estate, all behind
the ominous No Trespassing sign on the wrought iron fence. Symphony
Syd — a stegosaur not prone to exclamations, or even whispers —
squeaked out in recognition, "Tibor!"

The other saurs understood perfectly. Not for any physical resem-
blance, but when they looked up at Tibor's "castle, " very often with Tibor
glaring down at them, they couldn't help but feel — Xanadu!

Tibor did not really frighten them. He was a runt when you came
down to it. His Beethovian scowl was more likely to inspire laughter or
unease, but never fear.

He could worry them, though. He could even worry the human, Tom

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

207

Groverton, who also lived in the house and took care of the saurs. Dr.
Margaret Pagliotti, the human who came every week to check on their
health, might also worry over Tibor, when he stood in his castle entrance,
staring up at her and declaring, "Tibor chooses not!" at the prospect of a
bath (a bath which he received all the same).

Tom once described the feeling as knowing that a carbonated pop
bottle had been shaken vigorously then put back in with the other bottles,
so you no longer knew which bottle was going to spray you when you
opened it.

Tibor, of course, seemed to interpret their expressions otherwise. As
much as anyone could guess at the workings of the mind of Tibor, where
others saw worry, or frustration, or even amusement, Tibor saw awe, and
reverence, and deference.

In Tibor's reckoning (to the extent that he declared it), he was the
unrecognized, misunderstood genius. Tibor the thinker. Tibor the bold
leader. The aesthetic innovator. The brilliant strategist. Tibor: lonesome,
rejected outcast, embittered, unbroken!

The saurs tried not to reckon him at all. Not because they didn't like
him, but when they did, he recruited them into the Great Tiborian Army,
the Tiborian Council or, when he felt especially generous, into the
Knights of Tibor.

Or he would often try to appropriate anything he desired from the
other saurs by boldly walking up to them and claiming possession of it:
"Tibor's com!" "Tibor's ribbon!" Or, if he desired possession emphati-
cally: "Tibor's imperial skate!"

"Tibor's universe!" — insistent, like a fiery pianist whose every
finger hammered the same, single note.

Alphonse pressed closer to the radio, and its news of wars and fires and
airline crashes in Kentucky and downturns in the stock market.

Preston closed his eyes. The sentence he had been forming in reply to
the graduate student shrank into one word: "Patience."

Geraldine paused just long enough to move Tibor from the simmer to
the boil.

"Geraldine's."

"Tibor’s!"

Geraldine smiled, as usual, to herself.

208

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

The box behind her also had all its markings crossed out, but there
was only one word that replaced all the writing and logos. One word —
Danger!

All it took to brighten her smile was to look at that word. Neatly
drawn beneath it were a saurian skull and a pair of crossed femurs.

There was another old film that evinced from the saurs a degree of
recognition when they viewed it: The Bride of Frankenstein.

It was Kincaid, a squirrel-sized bright yellow corythosaur, who
whispered the name "Geraldine" upon seeing the mad doctor's laboratory
with all its strange devices. The screen flickered with lightning and
thunder rumbled from the speakers, sending the saurs into shudders, as
thunderstorms — or the name Geraldine — always did.

They knew somehow that — as they trembled down in the parlor,
watching this frightening tableau — Geraldine was up on the second floor,
in her lab, smiling.

Tom Groverton kept two fire extinguishers in the workroom, close to
Geraldine's lab, which seemed a sensible precaution.

In the medieval days of humans, children were bom of whom it was
said that "their eyes were too bright" and that they bore "a look too
uncanny." They were considered "devil's children," not really human at
all, and they were often killed or banished to save the village from
destmction and damnation.

Those were days of superstition and barbarism. The new century was,
at least ostensibly, an age of reason and pragmatism. No one wished to
harm Geraldine, or at least no one would admit to it.

If Tibor might make one feel uneasy on occasion, Geraldine could
bring on waves of anxieties within an instant by doing nothing more than
looking and smiling.

Downstairs in the parlor, at that very moment, Tyrone and Alfie, two
inseparable little theropods, were telling Doc that Alfie saw Geraldine
floating in the air once.

Doc was a beige tyrannosaur, about fifty centimeters tall when he
stood up straight — which was difficult, since he had a "tricky" left leg.
His thick brows made it look as if he were always squinting, though you
could just make out a twinkle in his eyes as he smiled at the little ones.

"A dream, no doubt," Doc told them. "I've dreamt of Geraldine

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

209

myself — a dream where I'm running for my life, faster than I've ever — "

Alfie shook his head. He never spoke except to whisper into Tyrone's

ear.

"Alfie says it wasn't a dream. Everyone was still at breakfast, and he
came back to the workroom. Geraldine was floating."

"Well." Doc looked at Alfie. "I did see once on the video a story about
a new kind of resin or plastic — clear as glass — that rides on the static
electricity in the air like a kite rides on the breezes. Very popular with the
children. Perhaps Geraldine's acquired a small piece of that substance,
and you saw her riding on that."

Alfie, himself no bigger than Tibor or Geraldine, looked up at Doc
with his perfectly round, dark eyes, then whispered some more into
Tyrone's ear.

"Alfie says she wasn't riding. She was floating."

Doc leaned forward and gently placed his forepaw on Alfie's head.
"Perhaps. Anything within reason is possible." He looked over at the
other saurs in the parlor, engaged in a game called Not So Hard, using their
tails to flick checkers like little hockey pucks across the wooden floor.

"Or without reason, I suppose."

Back upstairs, Tibor hammered away while Geraldine lengthened her
pauses to frustrate her opponent further.

"Tibot’s!"

"Geraldine's."

"It's torture!" Agnes groaned. Her back plates rose up straight and
clicked together in her agitation. "They're torturing usl"

"Agnes, please," said Sluggo.

Preston's reply to the graduate student evaporated into "Patience" for
the third time.

Alphonse turned up the volume on his little radio. His companions
tried not to look up at either desk.

But there were two other saurs in the room whose attention was fixed
on the duel above. Their heads moved as they shifted their attention from
one apatosaur to the other — as if they were watching a tennis match.

One of them was Axel, a blue theropod who stood about thirty
centimeters tall when he craned his neck. He had a long scar down his
back — healed for many years but still visible. His eyes were opened wide

210

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

and he let his jaw drop down so that the pink insides of his mouth and all
his thorny white teeth were visible.

He was fascinated with the exchange between Geraldine and Tibor,
though he had no idea what provoked it or what it was about — maybe
because he had no idea. It was the energy that fascinated him, the activity.
It was like watching the humans who brought the food supplies every
week: they went to the back of the truck and unloaded another box, and
then another, and then another. The momentary idea that the action could
be repeated into infinity was intoxicating and almost addictive. No matter
whose universe it was, it threatened to become nothing more than these
two names, Geraldine and Tibor, bouncing back and forth forever. To
Axel, the possibility was horrifying, and for that reason it was also
hypnotic. And exhilarating.

Next to Axel stood a small pink apatosaur — smaller even than
Geraldine or Tibor. Her name was Guinevere. That was not the first thing
she was called, but it was what she was called now.

The first thing she was called (by Axel, it so happened) was "Gack!"
because that was the first sound she made when she hatched from her egg.
It was a momentous occasion — all the saurs were watching when she
emerged. No saur in the house had ever been bom from an egg before —
or even "bom" in any other imaginable way. No one even knew it was
possible until it happened.

Bronte, a dark green cat-sized apatosaur, was the mother and she
decided (with a little help from Agnes) that "Gack!" was not an appropri-
ate name for such a special creature.

Axel's second choice for a name was Lancelot, since Lancelot had
been his buddy many years before, and Axel had been thinking about him
a lot just then. But that name was voted down too — as it seemed to all the
assembled saurs that the hatchling belonged to another gender (how they
could tell her gender was not discussed).

The name Guinevere was suggested by Hetman, a bhnd, limbless
theropod so crippled he was confined to a little bed that had been wheeled
over to the hatching so that, unable to see it, he could Usten to the event.

Bronte liked the name. "Guinevere," she said, sounding it out for
herself. "She is Guinevere."

Time confirmed the appropriateness of Hetman's choice. Guinevere

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

211

was treated like a princess, especially by her mother. Great things were
expected of her: a saur who had been bom, in a sense, not manufactured.
A saur who had never had to suffer the indignities of being purchased,
treated like a toy, and often abused. She was a creature free of the saurs'
past. Guinevere was the future.

And Axel formed a special relationship with her. Axel helped bring
her into the world when he "invented" the robot Rotomotoman, a metal
cylinder capped with a hemisphere that held two rolling eyes the size of
tea saucers, and duly equipped with arm-like appendages and four small
wheels. He (Rotomotoman was rarely referred to as "it") stood in a comer
of the workroom, attentive, and for the moment facing Geraldine and
Tibor. The names "Geraldine" and "Tibor" flipped back and forth almost
casually on the display screen in his cylinder-chest.

Rotomotoman was the product of sheer creative will on Axel's part —
and a great deal of assistance from Axel's fellow saurs (and the Reggiesystem
computer that so greatly aided in the operation of the house). He had
dreamed of Rotomotoman and wouldn't rest until Rotomotoman had
been built. Only after Rotomotoman's eyes lighted with a kind of me-
chanical consciousness, and he had rolled along the floor of the house on
his four little wheels, was it discovered that he also possessed a little
drawer secreted in his cylindrical torso — an incubator, perfect for saurian
eggs.

The first egg ever placed in the drawer was Bronte's, and from that egg
Guinevere emerged. Axel, therefore, could consider himself as a kind of
uncle, or godfather.

He thought of himself as Guinevere's "buddy."

Bronte often spent the afternoons reading to Hetman in the library.
Sometimes Guinevere stayed with her. At other times Guinevere went off
with Axel — which Bronte allowed with a little worry and only if Agnes
stayed nearby.

Axel wanted to show the world to Guinevere; the world he knew and
the world he imagined he knew, which was much bigger than the old
house. What troubled Bronte about this arrangement was that Axel found
it difficult to get his facts together coherently, if he resorted to facts at all.

"The first thing the world did was blow up," Axel told Guinevere.
"That's called the Big Bang! Everything flew out of the Big Bang and it's

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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

been flying around ever since! You look outside at night and see all those
stars and planets and moons? That's all Big Bang stuff still out there! And
it's all moving] It don't look like it's moving but that's because it's all
moving away from us and getting smaller and it's like millions of years
away. We can't see how it's moving because time moves slower the farther
it is from us! See?"

Axel was also subject to extended, energetic reveries for which his
imagination was the only boundary.

"Did you know that there are space guys out there? Like some of those
little stars are really big stars, like the Sun, but they're far away! And those
stars have got planets too! And the planets have got space guys who fly
around in interstellar ships and talk to each other and float around because
they don't have any gravity! Did 1 tell you about gravity yet?"

Not that Agnes made any close acquaintance with facts either, but
where Axel's imaginative improvisations were light — light enough at
times to float up to the ceiling — Agnes's were heavy and drew one back
down to the floor.

About humans Agnes would say, "Idiots! Cruel, selfish idiots! Even
the ones who seem nice — keep an eye on them! You never know when
they might turn on you!" Or she would say, "Brain size! What good is
having a big, fat, bulging brain if you don't know how to use it?"

Agnes might best be described as a realist unburdened by facts, and
Axel as a creature unburdened by realism.

Between the two Bronte hoped, apprehensively, to sort out for
Guinevere some picture of the world as it really was.

As for Guinevere, it was hard for anyone to say what she thought, for
she was still very young. She was attentive and curious, and showed signs
of understanding most everything that was said to her.

But what she made of it no one could say, because she had so far not
uttered a word. A few, not the least of them Bronte, worried that she might
not be able to speak at all.

Bronte was a worrier, like many new mothers, and though it was
pointed out to her by her friend Kara — a rust-colored apatosaur the same
size and shape of Bronte (but with a longer, somewhat impudent snout) —
that many saurs spent a long time listening before trying to speak, she
couldn't help herself.

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

213

There were other saurs, of course, who having once started to speak,
couldn't stop.

"Tibor's!"

"Geraldine's."

"Tiboi’sl"

"Geraldine's."

"TIBOR'S!"

"Stop it, you two!" Agnes shouted.

Nothing subhminal in Agnes's deep voice: you heard her clearly,
unquestionably, even if you were on the other side of the house.

"I don't want to hear another word out of either of you!"

"Don't listen," said Geraldine.

With Geraldine distracted, Tibor took the opportunity to repeat,
"Tibor's! Tibor's! Tibor's!" — as if by saying it more often he could win
the debate.

"Hey! You want trouble?" Agnes raised her tail and arched her back
until her plates clicked like castanets.

"Yes — " Geraldine said it in a way that sounded both like a question
and an answer.

Axel and Guinevere turned around to watch, as if a new player had
been introduced to the game.

"We don’t want trouble," Sluggo called up to Geraldine. "But maybe
you could settle your argument some other way."

"Tibor's! Tibor's! Tibor's!"

Geraldine smiled down at them. Agnes fiercely returned the regard.
Sluggo pressed himself closer to Agnes. Charlie and Rosie shuddered.
Elliot and Veronica turned away. Alphonse whispered, in a sort of chant,
"Ask the question. Ask the question. Ask the question."

Preston, with his keyboard resting on his outstretched legs — an
awkward-looking but comfortable posture lor him — started to write with
the four digits of his small forepaws: "Dear Jeanne, Thank you for your
interest in my work. I'm not sure if I can tell you anything very
interesting or revealing about what I do. The books have to speak for
themselves — "

Guinevere looked up at Geraldine and shook her head.

Geraldine looked down at Guinevere and nodded approvingly.

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FANTASY a. SCIENCE FICTION

Guinevere had reason to shake her head often in the few brief months
of her existence. She shook her head at the explanations of how the saurs
came to be in such a place; how as toys they were not treated very well,
and when they acted in ways that their manufacturers hadn't anticipated,
they were treated even worse. Of the thousands that had been sold, most
were destroyed or abandoned. Only through the intercession of the
Atherton Foundation were the few hundred surviving saurs given places
to live, refuges where they were fed and cared for — places like the house
where they lived now. Guinevere shook her head quite often with those
stories.

She shook her head at Agnes's explanations for the behavior of the
humans, the ones who made them and humans in general.

She shook her head as she watched the other saurs in the house;
playing, being read to, taking messages and lessons from the Reggiesystem
computer; watching the video or — like the Five Wise Buddhasaurs, who
didn't look wise at all — blowing into small, plastic musical instruments,
looking at each other and chuckling in their high, croaking voices ("Ho-
ho," "Hee-hee," "Hah-hah," in almost fiendish tones), then blowing even
harder.

But she never spoke a word. Agnes said that it was because Axel never
gave her a chance, but Kara said that when Guinevere was ready to speak,
she would.

A wealth of questions followed Kara's assertion. Could Guinevere
speak? Would she? And whenl

The other saurs not only wanted to know, they needed to know;
already, two more eggs were sitting in Rotomotoman's incubator, one of
Kara's and one of Agnes's. Could they expect the egg-bom saurs to have
the same capabilities as the ones that came from lab/factories?

Or maybe more?

Guinevere was the future.

But, for the time being, the future had to be kept a secret.

At that very moment, Tom Groverton was in his office a few doors
down from the workroom, on the phone with Susan Leahy, the head of the
Atherton Foundation, about the strange van that had been parked in the
woods near the house. Security system cameras had picked it up several
times in the past week. Tom had seen the van himself, with its forestry

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

215

service logo on the side, but the Reggiesystem confirmed that no such
service existed.

"We can't hide Guinevere forever," Susan said to Tom.

"Or the others, when they hatch." Tom looked out his window, as if
he might catch a glimpse of the van again.

"Or the others."

"So who are these people with the van?"

"No one from the Office of Bioengineering," Susan said. "That much
we're sure of. The SANI Corporation owns Toyco, and they've just merged
with a company called Biomatia that just received a big defense contract.
They've been petitioning us pretty strongly for 'research privileges.'"

"They want their saurs back," Tom said.

"They won't succeed, Tom. We need time, but we'll work something
out. You'll need to be extra watchful, but I know you can handle it."

Tom Groverton, as he usually did when someone tried to display
confidence in him, changed the subject.

"The other day I was going through some music files in a public
database. I found some things by a twentieth-century musician and
composer named Ornette Coleman. I don't know if it's just me, but it
sounds just like the Five Wise Buddhasaurs!"

Susan laughed. Tom didn't know enough about music to understand
why, but he laughed along with her.

He said goodbye and went outside — just for a few minutes — to
inspect the security system and to see if he could once more catch a
glimpse of the suspicious van.

Before stepping out he stopped by Doc, who was sitting on a little
plastic cube he kept that served as a stool. He was the unofficial referee of
the Not So Hard game.

"I'll just be a minute," Tom said. "Keep an eye on things."

Doc raised a forepaw in what would have been a salute had his
forepaws been longer.

"Worry not," Doc said. "The world is well and in its proper order."

In the workroom, Geraldine and Tibor were still faced off, Geraldine
still smiling, Tibor still scowling back.

But for the moment — silence.

216

FANTASY 8l SCIENCE FICTION

Blessed silence. Except for the sound of the radio and Preston typing
energetically.

“There is no grand scheme to my writing, " Preston tapped away at the
keyboard. "I listen to music. The music suggests stories to me, the way
that clouds suggest images and shapes. Shostakovich for some. Mahler for
others. And every now and then I dabble in Bruckner."

"After these messages," Alphonse heard from the radio, "we'll be
giving today's trivia question!"

Agnes lowered her tail and cautiously unclenched her teeth.

Geraldine kept smiling, as if testing the light breeze that came
through the window behind Tibor's castle, or staring through that window
at something far off — or, as if waiting for the proper moment to say —

"Geraldine's."

"Tiboi-s!"

"That does it!" Agnes thumped her tail against the floor. "Axel! Get
those plastic stairs over there and put them up by her desk!"

The plastic stairs were an adjustable device used by the saurs to get
up on tables, chairs, couches and the like. They were set on casters so that
they could be moved easily from one place to another, and a few presses
of a lever reset the height and pitch of the stairs. Axel brought over the set
of stairs currently placed up against Preston's desk.

"Hey!" said Charlie. "Now Preston can't get down!"

"We'll bring it back!" Agnes said. "This is important!"

Axel pushed the stairs over to Geraldine's desk.

Preston kept on, not even noticing. "I listened to many stories, and
read many more. Something about their shape, their certainty, comforted
me through some very hard times." He thought about taking out that last
part. So far he had carefully avoided any reference to his life apart from his
writing.

But why?

A wild notion occurred to him; How would it feel not to keep the
secret? To tell this graduate student who he really was? It struck him like
a story idea. He could already hear the narrative, in a storyteller's voice.

It drowned out all the other voices, even —

"Geraldine's."

"Tibor's! Tibor's! Tibor's!"

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

217

"Don't make me come up there!" Agnes shouted.

"You don’t want to go up there," Sluggo whispered to her, and added
emphatically, "Geraldine!"

"Oh, shut up!" Agnes approached the plastic stairs. "This nonsense
has to stop!"

"The universe doesn't belong to either of you!" Sluggo called up to
Geraldine and Tibor. "It doesn't belong to anyone!"

"Geraldine's."

"Tibor's!"

"Don't waste your breath!" Agnes stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"They're insane'."

"They're — they're just playing'." Sluggo hurried to her side. "They're
only doing it for the attention."

Agnes scowled up at the two. "If they weren't doing it in front of
Guinevere'."

"Hey! Guys!" Axel ran from one side of the plastic stairs to the other,
right around Agnes and Sluggo. "Sluggo's right! It's like the Reggiesystem
says: 'The universe is one big place!"'

"Not one," Tibor said. "Many."

"Many what?" Axel, forepaws resting on the plastic stairs, stared up
at Tibor.

"Universes. Many. This one is Tibor's!"

"Geraldine's."

Axel's jaw opened wide. "Universes?" Still holding on to the plastic
stairs, he stepped toward Tibor's desk.

"Many universes," Tibor said.

"Where you keep 'em?" He took another step.

"Come. Up here. Tibor will reveal all."

"Heyyyy!" Another step.

"Guinevere, you want to see Tibor's universes?" he asked. "Physics
guys say you can make universes as small as a pocket. You know what a
pocket is?"

Guinevere, hurrying along after Axel, looked up at Geraldine. Geraldine
smiled down at her and nodded.

Agnes watched the plastic stairs scooting quickly away from her and
shouted, "Hey! Put that back! Leave it! Ne touchez pas!"

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FANTASY &. SCIENCE FICTION

"Agnes!" Sluggo whispered. "Please!"

"Oh, shut up!" She followed after them with her tail raised.

"Axel! Guinevere!"

But Axel couldn't hear her. He was thinking: Universes! The stairs
slapped abruptly against Tibor's desk. The desks were all about the same
height, so Axel didn't need to adjust the steps.

"Don't go up there!" Agnes shouted. "And don't let Guinevere — "

But Guinevere had already shot past Axel and was halfway up the stairs.

"Guinevere!" Agnes gasped. "GUINEVERE! GET DOWN FROM
THERE!"

"Hey! Guinevere! Wait!" Axel raced up after her.

Agnes followed, tail raised as she shouted, "Stop her, you idiot!"

Sluggo trailed behind, ducking back several times to avoid Agnes's tail.

Tibor stood in the small (Tibor-sized) doorway of his castle when
Guinevere and Axel made it to the top of the desk. It was the only entrance
— or exit.

Guinevere, on her tiny but very swift legs, slipped into the castle past
Tibor.

"Hey! Guinevere! Maybe you should — " Axel stopped at the door-
way: Tibor-sized, not Axel-sized.

"Heyyy! How do I get in?"

"Tibor's sanctum sanctorum." Tibor backed into his castle until he
was completely within its cardboard walls.

Axel dropped down to his belly. He squeezed his head and forepaws
through and could squeeze no further.

Agnes and Sluggo stood behind him. "Get her out of there!" Agnes
shouted. "Get her out of thereV

"Guinevere! Hey! Guinevere!" Axel's vision slowly adjusted to the
dark interior of the box. At first he could see nothing at all.

And then — the darkness filled with stars!

"Heyyyy!"

More stars than the clear nighttime sky. More stars than on the old
screensaver of the Reggiesystem downstairs computer! There were stars
and planets and galaxies and clouds of cosmic gases extending in every
direction.

The universe expanded outward like a projection in a planetarium

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

219

show, and Axel could see it all — stars being bom, galaxies collapsing in
their dotage. In the middle of it all "stood" Tibor and Guinevere, looking
more like they were floating in space.

"Tiber's universe," Tibor said to Guinevere. "Behold!"

"It's neat!" Axel shouted. "You got any space guys in here too?"

"Very few life forms exist in this universe," Tibor said, looking at
Guinevere but answering Axel's question. "Tibor had other universes,
teeming with life."

"How many universes can you fit in here?"

"Sizes and scales are relative. All universes may fit in here, within
scale. All time may fit in here."

Suddenly, the universe started moving backward, or inward, and
everything Axel had seen moving away from him was now rapidly
approaching, like a huge skyrocket in reverse, pulling back all its fire,
fragments and filaments. The hundred billion stars seemed to be heading
straight for Axel's head.

"AAAAAAAAA!" he screamed.

But the Big Crunch didn't crush him. It retreated to a spot in the center
of the castle, where for an instant it looked like one fiercely brilliant star
over Tiber's head, then extinguished.

"So it was. So it is. So it will be."

It sounded like something Axel heard in the space stories he watched
on the video, like Guardians of the Galaxy-, or the historical stories where
the humans wore robes and sandals, and they walked around in big
temples and pyramids.

Absent the universe, not much else seemed to be within Tibor's
castle: a few luminous blue lozenges, which might have been pulled off
the control panels of some technical equipment; a pocket-sized computer
with its color screen repeating an image of an expanding sphere,- a book-
sized rectangular piece of clear material, like an old Plexiglas remnant; a
few oddly shaped pieces of metal, bolts and washers possibly, arranged in
two lines that met at a right angle to form a big letter T.

Some paper pictures were pinned to the cardboard walls. Axel recog-
nized the portraits of Napoleon and Beethoven. The other faces he didn't
know, but they all looked like Tibor, even one that had the hair and tusks
of a warthog.

220

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Eight hundred billion years ago," Tibor said, " — eight hundred
billion years from now, Tibor and Geraldine played."

"Whatcha play?" Axel found any mention of play interesting.

An image filled one of the walls of Tibor's castle: projected. Not
projected on the wall so much as in front of it. The image was of Tibor and
Geraldine, sitting before a huge, dark space: like an aviation hangar or the
interior of a cathedral. Each of them sat before their own small gray box,
on which they each rested their forelegs.

And then Axel felt something smack hard against his back, just above
his tail.

"Owwww! Hey!"

"What the hell's going on in there?" Agnes shouted. "Move it!"

HEN ACE RETURNEE) to the workroom, still
riding on his skate, he couldn't quite see what was
happening atop Tibor's desk.

He saw the plastic stairs.

He saw Agnes's tail swinging.

He could hear Axel's shout, "I'M STUCK! " But muffled, as if his head
was inside a cardboard box.

And from Alphonse's little radio, he heard an announcer: "And here's
today's trivia question: Which major toy company once used the slogan,
'From our labs to your playrooms'?"

"Toyco!" Alphonse tapped the pre-programmed number on his
pocket phone. "Toyco! Toyco! Toyco! It's — it's so easy!" he said to his
gathered friends. He had a high voice and he shouted the syllables with
such enthusiasm that it sounded more like the honking of one of the
Buddhasaurs' plastic horns.

But Charlie, Rosie, Veronica, and Elliott didn't hear any of it. They
were staring up at Tibor's castle.

Preston heard none of it either. He was staring at what he had just
written: "I want to be forthcoming for once. You know I write under a
pseudonym. My real name is Preston, fust Preston — no other name. The
photograph that accompanies my novels is of the human who takes care
of the house where I live. I am — " He hesitated, the digits of his forepaws
raised over his keyboard before finishing the sentence " — a saur."

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

221

Geraldine was not to be seen, but her lab was once again alive with
flickerings and flashings and strange noises.

Ace U-tumed his skate and rolled out of the workroom. He rode
downstairs on the flatbed lift (originally designed to hold a wheelchair)
that took the saurs from one floor to the other.

On the first floor he rode straight to the library, where Bronte was
reading to Hetman, whose bed had been wheeled over to the window. Kara
was with her, as were a number of other saurs who enjoyed listening to her
read.

Bronte read from a book titled Ulysses. Diogenes, a shy tyrannosaur
and the unofficial librarian of the house, had pulled it from one of the
upper shelves. At a little over a meter tall, he was one of the few saurs who
could reach it. He must have thought it was another account of the events
that followed the Trojan War, since Hetman enjoyed the works of Homer
and Virgil.

But as Bronte read about Buck Milligan, the shaving bowl and the
lather, she stopped to say, "Maybe this is a 'modem' prologue. They are
using a lot of Latin — "

When she got to the part with Stephen Dedalus in the classroom with
the little boy, Sargent, doing over his sums, she said, "I'm sorry. Hetman.
I thought this was another story. I'll have Diogenes find us another
book."

"Keep going," Hetman said in his rough, deep voice. "I like this
Stephen Dedalus — what he says about the little boy: 'Yet someone had
loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of
the world would have trampled him underfoot.' Please read on."

"Axel's head is stuck in the door of Tibor's castle!" said Ace.

"What!" The pages of Ulysses fluttered before Bronte like a fan.

Ace said, louder: "Axel’s head is stuck in the door of Tibor’s Castle!"

"Where's Guinevere?"

"Inside Tibor's Castle."

The copy of Ulysses slipped from Bronte's footstool-lectern and
thudded to the floor.

"But Agnes — "

"She's hitting Axel with her tail," Ace said, "but he still can't get his
head out."

222

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"As if that's going to help!" Kara looked upward. "We better get up
there before Agnes flattens him!"

The little ones who'd gathered around for the reading started to
chatter and whisper. The story circulated among them, from those who
had heard to those who hadn't, inevitably altered along the way on a few
slight details: "Agnes is heating Axel!" "Tibor's castle ate Guinevere!"
"Somebody stole Axel's head!"

As quickly as the story spread the saurs made their way up to the
workroom to see.

"Oh, Hetman, I'm sorry!" Bronte said, trying to close the book neatly
on the floor as Kara waited. "I don't remember the page where — "

"The story can wait," Hetman replied. "You must go to your child."

"Thank you," said Bronte. "I'm so — "

"Don't worry," said Hetman. "I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Geraldine's lab," Ace told them, "is making a lot of noise." He
turned his skate around and joined the crowd heading upstairs.

"Geraldine!" Hetman took a deep, wheezy, breath. "Hurry, Bronte!"

Bronte and Kara made their way quickly, but the lift was already too
crowded. Every saur who wasn't already in the workroom was heading for
it, with the exception of Diogenes, who stayed with Hetman, and the odd
pair (one short, one tall) of green tyrannosaurs — Jean-Claude and Pierrot
— who were captivated by a catalog from the Idaho Steak Ranch.

The game of Not So Hard was unofficially declared delayed on
account of Axel's head being stuck in something.

Even the Five Wise Buddhasaurs put down their synthesized horns
and hopped down from the couch.

Doc limped along on his tricky leg and called out to the other saurs,
"My friends! My friends! Please clear the way for Bronte and Kara!
Please!"

"Doc!" Kara called out from the clot of saurs heading up the stairs.
"We'll need your help!"

"I'll be there as soon as I can!"

He lamented for once that the house didn't have a device larger than
the skates — for which he was too big. Something along the lines of a
scooter, perhaps, would be in order.

Hubert, a tyrannosaur of about the same height as Diogenes, noticed

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

223

Doc's plight and held up the advance of a large spaniel-sized (but wider in
girth) brown triceratops named Dr. David Norman. Hubert bent his legs,
picked Doc up from just under his forepaws and gently placed him on Dr.
Norman's back.

"Now," Hubert said in a whispery voice, "you can ride."

"My thanks." Doc held onto Dr. Norman's bony crest. "This is most
— unconventional. I hope I don't prove too heavy."

Dr. Norman shook his head. "Better you than children." He started
for the stairs and added, somewhat cryptically, "Or monkeys."

Hubert stayed alongside, a forepaw on Doc's back in case he slipped,
and the three carefully but determinedly made their way through the
throng of saurs heading upstairs.

U PSTAIRS, AGNES and Sluggo dropped onto their
bellies, exhausted. They had shouldered (with as much
shoulder as they had, which was very little) up against
Axel, in an effort to push him out: an exercise which had
about as much effect in extricating Axel's head from Tibor's castle as
pressing their shoulders against a solid stone wall.

"Sluggo," Agnes said between deep gasps. "This isn't working. We're
— we're — " She could hardly bring herself to say it. " — quadrupeds]
We're not built for this!"

"I know," said Sluggo through shorter, faster gasps.

"Well, why didn't you say something?"

"I — I did."

"Oh, don't bother me with your complaining! Hey!" Agnes shouted
to Rotomotoman, who had rolled over to the desk and stared at them with
his enormous eyes.

For two simple plastic disks with simple-looking black pupils,
Rotomotoman's eyes displayed a remarkable range of expression, finding
every nuance between astonishment and bafflement.

But Agnes, so intent on scrutinizing others, was less adept at being
scrutinized.

"Get back over there! You've got eggs in you! I'm not going to have
you tipping over and killing my little one!"

From where she stood, Agnes couldn't read the words displayed on

224

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

Rotomotoman's torso screen: WANT : TO : HELP — but it wouldn't have
made a difference to her.

"Go on! Beat it! Everything's under control here!"

To the saurs crowded into the workroom, it must not have sounded
very convincing.

Agnes stared down at them from the edge of the desk.

"Hey! Nothing to see up here! Go back to whatever you were doing!
Go on!"

Bronte and Kara, having made their way up the plastic stairs, were not
about to go anywhere.

"Hmmm." Agnes, as usual, could not hide her embarrassment. She
could only ignore it. "Well, I didn't mean you! As long as you're here, you
can help me out."

"Agnes," Bronte started to say, "what — how — ?"

"I'M STILL STUCK!" Axel shouted.

Agnes delivered to him a lateral whack with her tail. "Calm down,
idiot!"

Kara quickly stepped between them. "Stop hitting him!"

"I'm not hurting him. Just giving him a little incentive."

"Quiet! Quiet!" Alphonse shouted to the saurs who filled the work-
room. "I'm on the ladioV

He adjusted the volume in time to hear the announcer say, "In a
moment we'll be back to the phones with a voice that's familiar to most
of you. That's right, Alphonse is back, and we'll see if he can successfully
answer today's trivia question — "

"Toyco!" Alphonse shouted. "Toyco! Toyco! Toyco!"

"After this brief message — "

I N SIDE THE CASTLE, Tibor continued to tell his
story to Guinevere — between Axel's cries of "I'M
STILL STUCK!" and his wrestlings to extricate him-
self.

"The game was to build universes," Tibor said, looking down at Guin-
evere. "Tibor and Geraldine possessed computers with the initial settings
to expand infinitely compressed matter infinitely in all dimensions. The

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

225

process could be repeated an infinite number of times, with infinite
results."

"Infinity," Axel called to Guinevere. "That means a loti"

Guinevere stared at the projected image of Geraldine and Tibor with
their gray boxes, presumably the computers, like the little game units
some human children still played with in front of their video screens. Two
bright sparks appeared before them, which grew into shimmering spheres.
From inside each sphere grew another sphere, and from inside that one
grew another sphere. The spheres closest to Geraldine were neatly
concentric and symmetrical, like ripples from a stone dropped in a pond,
but ripples in three dimensions — maybe four. They looked like part of a
brilliantly choreographed light show.

The spheres closest to Tibor looked oblong and wobbly, misshapen
and unevenly spaced.

Guinevere watched carefully, her head turning from one set of
spheres to the other.

Axel tried to push, then pull, himself out. Whatever movement he'd
made to squeeze so far into the castle apparently could not be simply
reversed. He arched his hind legs and tried to get some traction on the
desk's surface, but it didn't work. Perhaps his head had grown, expanding
like one of Tibor's or Geraldine's universes.

"Each sphere is a universe. Each universe a probability," said Tibor.
"Geraldine's were mathematically perfect. Tibor's were not. Tibor hoped
to find perfection in imperfection. It was not what Geraldine says: that
Tibor didn't know how. Perfection is too simple for Tihor."

"Tibor! Help!" Axel called to him. "I'm stuck in your doorway! How
do I get out?"

Tibor continued, oblivious to Axel's predicament: "The world will
understand someday that they scorned Tibor unfairly. They will lament!
Once, there were worlds with life forms grateful to Tibor! Life forms that
worshiped Tibor! That built the great Oracle of Tibor! Tibor Cathedral.
Tibor's Hat, the stately rock formation at the foot of Lake Tibor. The
planet of the Tiborians. The Tiborus galaxy. Tibor created all probabilities
that loved Tibor! And Tibor would reward them with his beneficence and
genius!"

Guinevere shook her head. Tibor took no notice. He stared up at his

226

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

own projected images of the gleaming, golden statue of Tibor in the Great
Temple of Tibor, one hundred meters tall.

"Had they lived," Tibor said. "Had they lived."

"Hitting him isn't going to get him out!" Kara said.

"He's in there like a cork!" Agnes replied. "You give it a try!"

"Can't we, maybe, lift the box up?" asked Bronte.

Agnes shook her head. "Tibor's managed to glue it down with some
sort of junk."

"We'll have to think of something else," Bronte said.

"We should go find Tom," said Sluggo.

"No!" Agnes faced the box again. "It's not his business! We've got to
figure this out for ourselves ! " She raised herself, placing her forelegs on Axel's
back, then pressed down on the base of his tail as if it were a pump handle.

"I'M STILL STUCK!" Axel shouted.

"Hmmm!" said Agnes. "That won't work either."

By this time, Doc had arrived. Hubert had lifted him from Dr.
Norman's back and placed him more than halfway up the plastic stairs.

"My friends, my thanks," he said, and cautiously climbed the rest of
the way.

"And what catastrophe has befallen — " Doc started to say, but,
making a quick inspection, he didn't require an answer.

"Good heavens!"

"What are we going to do?" asked Bronte.

"Lubrication is not going to help. " Doc gently patted Axel's back with
his forepaw.

"Relax, my friend. We'll have you out of there soon enough."

"Not soon enough for Guinevere," Agnes said. "Who knows what
sort of idiocy that psycho-saur is telling her!"

Doc put his ear up to the cardboard castle's side. "Whatever he's
telling her, he's not being very concise."

"Hey!" Agnes banged on the castle with her tail. "Guinevere! What-
ever he's telling you, don’t listenV

"STOP HITTING THE BOX!" Axel shouted.

Doc walked to the edge of the desk, where Hubert was waiting to see
if he could be of any more help.

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

227

“Do you know where Tom keeps the box knife in his office?"
Hubert nodded slowly.

"Knife ? " Bronte looked back at Axel, still kicking and struggling. "We
can't use a knife!"

"I know we're not very well adapted to human tools, but we could
take a stab — er, we can give it a try."

"What if we slip?"

"It can't be too difficult, it's merely cardboard."

"What is? Axel's head?" Agnes said.

"It isn't that," Bronte said. "We'd be wrecking Tibor's place. I know
it's silly. It's delusional, but it's Tibor's. What else can it be? It's his — his
— environment."

"What! Are you nuts?" said Agnes. "Your baby is inside that thing!"
"I know," said Bronte, turning from the cardboard walls to Axel. "But
we can't wreck Tibor's home."

"Very well," said Doc. "Hubert, we won't use the box knife. We'll
have to find another way."

I mpacNewzRadio followed their "brief" mes-
sage with another "brief" message, followed by another
"brief" message. Ice cream stores, bedding sales, real
estate and youth-restoring over-the-counter inhalants:
Alphonse heard about all of it.

"We need to break for weather and headlines, but as soon as we're
back we've got Alphonse on the line to answer today's trivia question.
Thanks for holding on, Alphonse."

"Toyco!" Alphonse wrapped his duo-digited forepaws into little fists
in anticipation.

"The boy I'd been bought for went to school during the day,"
Preston wrote. "I was alone. I started to read the books on the shelf: the
'Great Books' and the encyclopedia. No one else ever touched them.
They were considered as decoration, though they were rarely even dusted.
But they helped a great deal when I had to do the boy's homework for
him."

228

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

Inside Tiber's castle, the projected images of Tiborian glory were
replaced with the images of Tiborian decline: his universes floundering,
faltering, collapsing in on themselves like sandcastles in the Sun.

"Had they lived," Tibor said to Guinevere. "In the few remaining
Tiborian universes, worship turned to hatred. Tibor visited these worlds,
to help — out of the kindness and goodness and mercy in Tibor's heart — "

Guinevere made a little noise, like a sneeze.

"It was not what Geraldine says, that Tibor did not know what he was
doing. Tibor suspects conspiracy. Tibor suspects sabotage."

Guinevere sneezed again, only this time the noise sounded more like
a chuckle. The noise came out two, three more times. Guinevere couldn't
suppress it.

"Across a hundred universes, Tibor was hunted by his enemies, " said
Tibor. "He lost the means to return to his own universe. It was not what
Geraldine says: that he doesn't know how. Tibor took the form of a saurian
creature, like you. As did Geraldine, who followed Tibor, out of guilt and
worry for his well-being.

"And now Tibor works to find a way back to his own time and
universe. His true home. Tibor will return."

Guinevere's sneezes increased in number, and as they increased they
were joined by tbe first noises to issue from that tiny, virginal larynx at the
top of the apatosaur's slender neck.

It was laughter.

And she kept laughing for some time after Tibor had finished his long,
sad tale.

Outside, Doc gestured to Rotomotoman, who was still watching, his
display screen still proclaiming WANT : TO : HELP.

"Rotomotoman! " Doc said. "We need your assistance, if you please."

"No you don't!" Agnes said. "That thing's got our eggs in it!"

"My dear Agnes," Doc said, "with all due respect, we need someone
or something that can turn and pull Axel with a minimum of difficulty.
Hubert here is too big to fit on the desk, but too short to reach Axel from
the floor, as would be Diogenes. Our friends, Jean-Claude and Pierrot,
might be able to do the job, but the last time I saw them they were
transfixed by a copy of some catalog of meat."

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

229

"Buffoons!" Agnes said. "Idiots!"

"What we need, frankly, is a pair of hands, which Rotomotoman has.
Our friend, Tom, also has a pair of hands. If you would prefer to call for
him — "

"Oh shut up! " Agnes said. "You win. But if anything happens to those
eggs — "

"Completely understood," Doc replied. "Hubert, if you could stand
just behind our cylindrical assistant in the unlikely event that he loses
balance — "

Hubert placed himself behind Rotomotoman, legs and forepaws
spread in a kind of near-embrace.

"Now, Rotomotoman," Doc continued, "if you could adjust your
height enough to allow you a firm but gentle grip on the little fellow's
ankles. And Axel — "

"Yes, Doc?" Axel said, from the other side of the cardboard wall.

"Please cease kicking, if you would."

"Okay!"

Rotomotoman extended the metal tubes on which his wheels were
affixed (and were usually retracted into his torso), raising his height just
the few centimeters necessary to reach out straight with his metal hands
and take hold of Axel's ankles.

"Now," Doc said, "raise him just a bit and turn him this way, on his
back." Doc made a counterclockwise gesture with his forepaw.

"Kara, Bronte: if you can get your forelegs a little under him as
Rotomotoman does that, you can keep Axel from chafing."

"Hey!" Axel called out as the makeshift crew went to work. "What
are you doing?"

"Unscrewing your head!" Agnes said. "Like a lightbulb."

"AAAAAA!"

"Not exactly, httle friend," Doc told him. "But I think I know a way
to get you out. You must, however, do one thing for me, at least for a few
minutes, if you can."

"Sure, Doc. What do I have to do?"

"Close your mouth."

"I can do that! Watch!" Not that anyone but Tibor and Guinevere
could watch, nor did they, but he really did close his mouth.

230

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

"Mouth closed?"

"Mmmm-mmmm!"

"Good work!" Doc patted him again.

"Now, lift!" Doc said to Rotomotoman. "Up! Straight up, but with
a bit of an arc! Pull — just a trace! Yes! I think we've almost got him
free!"

Rotomotoman extended his legs a little higher and lifted Axel until
he was completely upside-down, but nearly extricated. The snout part of
his head was still inside the castle. Doc reached down and placed a forepaw
on either side of Axel's head.

"You've done very well, good Axel. Now all we need to do is pull your
head just — a bit — more.

"All those years," he said softly, "helping children with their wooden
block toys and puzzles have finally paid off."

With Axel just a few millimeters away from freedom. Doc hardly took
notice of how much louder he had to speak even to hear himself in these
quiet remarks.

But it was more apparent when Agnes nudged him over and shouted
into the box, "Guinevere! Come out of there!" — and that was hard for
him to hear — that something was intruding on the already chaotic
ambience of the room.

A noise of some sort — a humming, though it could also be under-
stood as a rapid, steady oscillation.

This humming noise was accompanied by the brightening light from
the ceiling fixture, which escaped notice until it occurred to some of the
saurs in the workroom that the ceiling fixture had not been turned on, it
being the midaftemoon of a pleasant summer day.

The littlest saurs were especially aware of the light, and the hum —
and most particularly of the vibrations through the floor that seemed to
be coming from both.

Doc looked up when he heard the crackle of delicate glass in the light
fixture. Off it went. The shards of bulb, fortunately, were contained
within the fixture itself.

Bronte tried to say something to Doc, which he couldn't make out. He
wondered if he might be going deaf but then, as if to dispel this fear, he
turned to a greater one — across the workroom.

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

231

Geraldine's lab was alive with intense light. It could have been a
theater's or movie studio's arc lamp, or a lighthouse beacon — Doc
wouldn't have been surprised. The light did have a sort of direction — a
concreteness to it, like a shaft — directed across the room and through the
window.

The fire extinguishers, in that instant, seemed ridiculously inad-
equate.

Some of the little ones, understandably frightened, headed for the
door, squealing.

The Five Wise Buddhasaurs, sitting comfortably on a plastic cube not
unlike Doc's, burst into applause at the light, the hum, and the panic.

"Hee-hee!" said the Buddhasaur triceratops. The Buddhasaur stego-
saurus said "Hah-hah! " The Buddhasaur allosaurus, hadrosaur, and tyran-
nosaur answered, "Ho-ho!" and cackled.

"I lived with those homeless people for several months," Preston
wrote to the graduate student, "sleeping in the underpass. I justified my
'keep' by making signs they used when panhandling."

He had to squint now to read over his words. Not only was the light
from Geraldine's lab creating a glare, but the image itself was fading, as if
the power was being drained from his screen.

"Eventually, the police rounded them up and I was taken along.
That's when I was turned over to the Atherton people."

He now felt clearly that revealing the truth about himself was not a
good idea. The news would be met with disbelief. If not, he feared the
reaction to his novels would be driven more by novelty than the relative
merits of what he had written.

Still, he wanted the chance to read over this little biography and get
a feel for what it might be like to tell the world (or at least a curious
graduate student) who he really was.

For, in a sense, he wouldn't really know the answer until he had
written it.

"Now we're back," the radio announcer said. But the digital signal
seemed to be encountering interference. Pieces of it, like tiles on an old
mosaic, were dropping out.

232

FANTASY A SCIENCE FICTION

" — think Alphonse is sti_on the line. Alphonse, thanks waiting."

"Toyco! Toyco! Toyco!" Alphonse pressed the phone tightly to his

ear.

"Now, repeat day's triv ques , what major toy com once

the slogan, ' our labs to playrooms'?"

"Toyco!" Alphonse shouted again. "It's Toyco! Toyco!"

GNES AND BRONTE peeked into the space

between Axel's head and the entrance of Tibor's castle to
get a glimpse of Guinevere. Doc pulled Axel's head out
a little farther: almost there.

So far, Axel had done just what Doc requested, kept his mouth closed
and restrained himself from saying anything or making any noise.

But when the same overpowering light that emanated from Geraldine's
lab came out of Tibor's castle as well — in one bright, humming flash —
Axel was left with one, predictable, recourse:

" AAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA! "

Doc had to turn away, at once temporarily blinded and deafened. He
tried to signal to Rotomotoman to bring Axel down slowly, but
Rotomotoman was motionless, as if his batteries had drained. The display
screen on his torso filled with an apparently random hodgepodge of Greek
and Arabic alphabet characters.

Axel, left dangling in the firm grip of Rotomotoman, continued,
somewhat more emphatically:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

With the light now coming out of both cardboard edifices, the Five
Wise Buddhasaurs applauded even more effusively, much as if a fireworks
display had come to a stunning finale.

"I'm sor , phonse, we couldn't quite he that answer. Could

you turn your rad down, please?"

"TOYCO! TOYCO! TOYYYYCOOO!"

"Alphonse? Alphonse?"

"TOOOOYCO!"

"Sorry, _ think we've lost Alphonse. We getting of ference.

go to move on to the next — "

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

233

"TOY — !" Alphonse's mouth was still open, hut the last syllable
never made it out.

The light grew even brighter. For a moment, the light was all anyone
could see —

And then it was gone, and with it the infernal hum and the crackling
rush of air. The workroom fell silent — or almost so.

" AAAAAAAAAAAAA! "

Preston looked at his display screen — empty! Except for the little
word "Sent," on the function display line above his toolbar.

He felt numb and practically had to will himself to breathe. He
thought: What have I done? and slowly closed his eyes.

"Guinevere? Guinevere?" Bronte looked into Tibor's castle.
"Guinevere? You can come out now!"

"Guinevere!" Agnes pushed past Bronte and poked her head through
the doorway. "Hey! Time to go! Smells terrible in here!"

Rotomotoman jolted back to life. He gently lowered Axel to the top
of the desk while his display screen clicked through a number of punctua-
tion marks and a spasm of diagonal interference. At last he locked upon
the message, AXEL : SAFE.

Axel, out of the box, rocked from one side to the other, trying to stand
up.

"Relax," Doc said, helping him up. "Slowly. You've been through
quite an ordeal."

"Hey, Doc! Guys! You won't believe! I saw my own body like it was
on the other side of the room!"

"Calm down," Doc said gently. "Are you all right? Can you see?"

"Yeah! I see — spotsl And they're shaped like Guinevere and Tibor!"

"I think we're all seeing spots," Doc said. "Fortunately, not like
that."

Doc looked across the room, at Geraldine's lab, and his jaw dropped
open.

"Oh — my — dear!"

"Guinevere?" Bronte looked once more into Tibor's castle. "Please
come out. We're worried about you."

234

FANTASY &. SCIENCE FICTION

Her eyes were still clouded from the blast of light. All she could make
out, faintly, in Tibor's castle was Tibor, or just his forelegs, in the
shadows. Guinevere was not to be seen.

Doc tapped her gently on the back. His voice faltered and sounded
higher-pitched than usual.

"She — she's over there!"

Bronte withdrew her head from the cardboard box. Doc was pointing
across the room, to Geraldine's lab — and to Guinevere, who had just
emerged from it.

Bronte blinked, as if it might just be an effect of the light, then looked
again.

"Agnes," Bronte said, as she watched Guinevere walk to the edge of
the desk and smile over at them. "You said — "

"She wasV Agnes's mouth dropped open. "I saw her go in myself!"

"She was in theieV Axel pointed to Tibor's castle. "Now she's over
thereV He pointed back to Guinevere. "That's like — super science!"

"I don't see this." Agnes said. "I refuse — "

"Maybe it's a trick, " Sluggo said, "like the magic shows on the video. "

"If so, then how?" Doc asked. "The stage magicians have trapdoors.
Where is the trap door here?"

"It's in space!" Axel said, stretching to rub his neck with his forepaw.
"Like, the wormy-holes where everything gets sucked in and comes out
on Saturn!"

"Axel, my friend," Doc said. "I try not to discount any fairly reason-
able hypothesis, but I do wish that reality would be a little kinder to my
sensibilities."

"Tibor!" Kara called into the cardboard castle. "Tibor! I know you're
in there."

"Tibor is not!" The shaken voice came from inside.

"Tibor! What happened?"

He didn't answer. When Kara peered in she could make out no more
than a shadow, shuddering in a comer.

Bronte shouted, "Guinevere! Stay there! I'm coming!" and started
down the plastic stairs. The others followed, and as soon as they were all
on the floor, Hubert rolled the plastic stairs over to Geraldine's desk.

Alphonse stared at the little group walking from Tibor's desk to

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

235

Geraldine's, but really didn't see them. The phone had dropped from his
open forepaw.

Rosie nudged him consolingly. "We know, anyway."

"You did good," Charlie said as he switched off the radio. "Doesn't
matter what they know."

"It does," Alphonse said, then corrected himself: "It did."

"Tomorrow," said Elliot, as Veronica carefully closed up the phone
with her snout. "Won't be a record, but — tomorrow."

F RESTON, looking at his empty screen, re-
signed himself to his fate. The world would discover the
identity of Ellis Lawrence Cartwright. Or maybe Jeanne,
the graduate student, wouldn't believe him. Or if she
did, maybe no one would believe her. But if they did, what would happen
then?

He checked his "sent" folder — the message wasn't there!

It was possible that the message had been intercepted by something,
or just disintegrated in whatever strange power surge emanated from
Geraldine's lab.

Which meant the message might not have been sent after all.

He put the keyboard down to his side as if coming out of a trance,
stood up, and for the first time that afternoon he looked around the
workroom.

Half the saurs in the house seemed to be there, all staring up at
Geraldine's desk as if something astounding — or appalling — had just
happened there. But all Preston could see was Guinevere, standing at the
edge of the desk as her mother, Kara, Agnes, Sluggo, Axel and Doc made
their way to her.

Geraldine's lab was dark and still.

Tom found the suspicious "forestry service" van about where he
expected to find it, parked in a small clearing roughly twenty meters out
past the property line and security perimeter.

Nothing much about it suggested that it had anything to do with
forestry. The only thing on or around it that even vaguely qualified as
equipment was a rather long antenna fixed dead center atop the cab.

236

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

He couldn't detect any activity around the van, and no one was visible
inside or nearby it — like it had simply been parked there.

He was about to move on and see if he could find some sign of the van's
occupants elsewhere when he heard an odd noise; like a gust of wind and
a sizzling of atmosphere, followed by a bright flash, like lightning.

On a clear, nearly cloudless afternoon.

Still, he instinctively hit the ground.

He didn't hear anything like thunder but remained flat in the moss
and cool dirt until he heard a muffled yelp and a startled expletive that
sounded like it came from the back of the van.

Tom looked up at the van. A white-bluish smoke escaped through the
back doors. The engine started up quickly, gunned, and the van jolted into
motion with a gear-stripping groan.

As it pulled away, the van just missed a tree. The antenna bent
severely as it caught in the lower branches.

Tom watched them — heard them, really — connect abruptly with
the service road on the other side of the dense line of trees, and head off
with a roar. In the hazy smoke the van left behind, he smelled something
distinct from the smells of even an old, inefficient, gas-buming vehicle
(and the van didn't look that old): something more like burning plastic,
and that "ozone" smell one associates with electrical fires.

He pressed a finger and thumb up to his mustache. Perhaps something
in the van had malfunctioned. But he remembered that he first heard that
strange sizzling noise behind him.

Tom turned around, where he could clearly see the house.

It might have been an intuitive leap, or his imagination getting the
better of him, but he saw (or thought he did) a flicker of light — from that
distance no more than a little glass bead catching the sunlight — in the
workroom window.

Tom ran all the way back to the house.

"Guinevere? " Bronte gently nuzzled her child's head. "It's time to go.
I'm reading a book to Hetman downstairs. It's called Ulysses. Would you
like to listen with us?"

Guinevere pressed herself against her mother's side and nodded.

"I think we should be together more. It's very nice of Agnes and Axel

IN TIBOR'S CARDBOARD CASTLE

237

to keep an eye on you, but maybe they should have some more time for
themselves. Don't you think?"

Guinevere shook her head.

Geraldine peeked out of her lab just as Tom made it up to the
ivorkroom, breathless, holding his chest.

"What — " Tom said and stopped to take a few extra breaths. He
looked at the saurs in front of Geraldine's lab, then at Geraldine, in her
doorway — then he took a second look at her.

She was wearing goggles.

Tiny, Geraldine-sized goggles. They might have been appropriated
from some child's doll or action figure, but how did the little quadruped
ever get them on?

"What did I just, conveniently, miss?" Tom asked Doc.

Doc raised his forepaws and let them drop back down slowly. "Is there
a chance that one might find a few drops, just a thimbleful, maybe, of
vodka in the house?"

Axel whispered to Guinevere, as he pointed to the pair of jeans
Tom was wearing. "See that flap where Tom's got his hand? That's a
pockety

Geraldine stepped out of her lab. She smiled at Bronte, who
protectively stepped forward to place herself between Geraldine and
Guinevere.

Geraldine smiled at Guinevere too, but for once her smile appeared to
suggest that she was sharing her private joke.

She nodded to Guinevere.

And Guinevere nodded back.

Bronte shuddered. And when she noticed that Guinevere was smiling
very much the way Geraldine smiled, she hurried her child back down the
plastic stairs.

"Monster!" Agnes barked at Geraldine. "Demon! You are insane and
dangerous!"

"So what?" said Geraldine.

Doc and Sluggo managed to restrain Agnes before any further escala-
tion occurred.

Geraldine walked to the edge of the desk and surveyed the workroom
as if she were making an assessment of it and all the rest of the great world

238

FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

beyond it, fixing her gaze last upon the cardboard box that Tibor called his
castle.

"Tiber's universe," was her conclusion.

Nothing stirred in the cardboard box for a good two minutes, until
Tibor, very cautiously, poked his head out from his castle.

Geraldine repeated: "Tiber's. "

Tibor took a moment to digest this and then, as if swelling himself
with a great breath, returned to his serene, imperial posture.

"Tiber's!" he said and, with order restored to his universe, he retired
to his castle.

Tom stood in a spot just between Geraldine's lab and Tiber's castle.
He looked up at the light fixture with its broken bulb, then bent down a
little, as if trying to get a desk-eye view of what could be seen through the
workroom window.

He pressed his finger thoughtfully up to his mustache and started to
ask, "Geraldine — " then shook his head and turned to Preston.

"I don't suppose you would know — "

"Sorry." Preston shook his head. "I was a little involved in my work.
It all happened rather suddenly."

Tom, with his eyes closed, nodded. "That it did. Whatever it was."

He held up a finger and said, "I need to make a call. I'll be back later
to replace that bulb."

As he left, Jean-Claude and Pierrot came running in, Pierrot holding
open a page of the Idaho Steak Ranch catalog.

"Tom! Tom!" said Pierrot. "Why can't we get meat that looks like
this!"

T om looked at the open page. "Because, guys, that is a side of beef. We
don't buy sides of beef." He headed out of the room.

"Well, why not?" asked Pierrot.

"Hey," Jean-Claude asked, looking around the room. "Something
happen here?"

"Who knows?" Tom ushered them into the hallway.

In the middle of the room, Alphonse was still sitting among his
companions, but they were joined by the Five Wise Buddhasaurs, who had
gone off and returned with their instruments. They were playing, for

IN TIBOR’S CARDBOARD CASTLE

239

Alphonse, something that might have sounded like "Chicago Break-
down" colliding with "Beau Koo Jack" simultaneously, or just the random
squealings and squawks of five plastic horns interspersed with "Hah-
hah," "Ho-ho," and "Hee-hee."

But they were playing for Alphonse, and Alphonse was smiling.

"Hey, Preston! " Axel pushed the plastic stairs over to Preston's desk.
"I brought this back for you!"

"Thank you. Axel."

"Agnes said I should have my head examined!"

"Agnes says that to everyone," Preston said. "Does your head hurt?"

He turned his head experimentally, first left, then right. "No! It feels
fine! My neck is a little stiff!"

"That should go away soon. If it doesn't, make sure to tell Dr.
Margaret."

"Oh, I willV

Axel stood in front of the plastic stairs, just looking at them.

"Preston?"

"Yes, Axel."

"They want me to stay away from Guinevere! Agnes said I'm danger-
ous!"

"That's not for Agnes to decide. I'm sure it's only for a while. Bronte
knows how you feel about Guinevere. She also knows you're not danger-
ous." And Preston added, to himself, at least not intentionally.

"I still got a lot of things to teach Guinevere!" He looked down at his
feet, as if unable to look anywhere else. "I didn't mean to get my head
stuck in Tibor's castle! And Guinevere is — she's — fasti"

"Axel," Preston said, "If you'll give me a minute or two to finish
something I'm writing. I'd like to hear about everything that happened to
you and Guinevere, if you'd like to tell me about it."

"YES!" Axel hurried up the stairs, smiling. "Yes! Preston! My best-
best friend in the whole world! Yes!"

"fust a few more minutes." He sat back down and returned his
keyboard to his outstretched legs.

He reprised all the information about his work habits that he had
already given to the graduate student, but left out all of his "confession."

240

FANTASY A. SCIENCE FICTION

If she did receive the earlier message, he could say it was a story he was
working on that was inadvertently included.

He looked back to find not only Axel but Rotomotoman as well,
staring at him. But their wonder and curiosity seemed much less worrying
than the scrutiny of a graduate student.

"I saw the whole universe!" Axel said. "It was small, but it wasn't
anything like a pocketV

"Just a moment," Preston said. "I'm almost finished."

"About my 'philosophy,'" Preston wrote. "It's no different from any
other creature's with a sense of good and evil, right and wrong, and some
sense of a world beyond one's internal meanderings. If anything distin-
guishes my personal philosophy from anyone else's, it may be my feeling
that we are in the employ of some 'unknown power,' as Matthew Arnold
would have put it. But I'm divided as to whether that power belongs to a
being of great aspirations allied with a bungling self-centeredness — "

Preston glanced back at Tiber's castle, then at Geraldine's lab to his

left.

" — or one of great but mischievous energies, the goals of which, or
of whom, we can only hope are benign."

In the background Preston heard, from a tiny Buddhasaur horn,
something that sounded very much like the solo from "Basin Street
Blues."

"Patience," he wrote. "That's it in a word. My thanks again for your
interest."

He read the lines over with the same sort of trepidation he felt when
he finished his first novel — when he finished anything, for that matter
— and hit the "send" key.

"There," he said to Axel. "That's done. Now tell me all about what
happened."

F antasy&ScienceFiction

MARKET PLACE

BOOKS-MAGAZINES

S-F FANTASY MAGAZINES, BOOKS.
96 page Catalog. $5.00. Collections
purchased (large or small). Robert Madle,
4406 Bestor Dr., Rockville, MD 20853.

CRANK! magazine — back issues avail-
able. LeCuin, Fintushel, Lethem. Write
Broken Mirrors Press, PO Box 1110,
New York, NY 10159-11 10.

16-time Hugo nominee. The New
York Review of Science Fiction.
www.nyTsf.com Reviews and essays.
$4.00 or $36 for 12 issues, checks only.
Dragon Press, PO Box 78, Pleasantville,
NY 10570.

Spiffy, jammy, deluxy, bouncy — sub-
scribe to Lady Churchill's Rosebud
Wristlet. $ 1 6/4 issues. Small Beer Press,
176 Prospect Ave., Northampton, MA
01060.

SF & Fantasy Used Books
Thousands of titles online — low
prices, low shipping rates.
LostAndBound.com

Twenty Questions, Jerry Oltion's latest
short story collection, is now available
from Wheatland Press, www.wheatland
press.com

The Internet Review of Science Fiction:
Reviews, commentary, and more:
WWW. iiosf. com

Abandon All Hope horror novel by
Nephilim Books. Grisly and horrific.
www.abandon-hope.com

Now available! In Lands That Never
Were: Tales of Swords al Sorcery from
P^SP. Stories by Leiber, Howard, Le
Guin, more. Signed by the Editor. $ 1 7.95
postpaid from F&SF, PO Box 3447,
Hoboken, NJ 07030.

Abundant wit. The F&SF contests, 1971-
1993, are collected in Oi, Robot, edited
by Edward L. Ferman. Contributors in-
clude Joe Haldeman, Pat Cadigan, more.
$11.95 postpaid from F&SF, PO Box
3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

BACK ISSUES OF F&SF: Issues from
1989-1995 are growing very scarce — fill
the gaps in your collection while you
can. Send for free list: F&SF, PO Box
3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

2V1ISCELLANEOUS

Help sf fans with physical problems
that make reading difficult, http://
www.Read Assist.org.

Zoltan &Co. Construction, repairs, odd
jobs. Reasonable rates.

Sci Fi Book Editor. Serving writers and
publishers since 1976. www. manuscript
editing.com

VAMPIRES EXIST! JOIN US!
WWW. vampiretemple.com

F&SF classifieds work because the cost is low: only $1.50 per word (minimum of 10
words). 10% discount for 6 consecutive insertions, 15% for 12. You'll reach 100,000
high-income, highly educated readers each of whom spends hundreds of dollars a year
on books, magazines, games, collectibles, audio and video tapes. Send copy and
remittance to: F&SF Market Place, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

Curiosities

March op the Robots,

BY “Leo Brett” (1961)

ROM 1954 to

1965, Lionel Fan-
thorpe produced al-
most the entire SF/
supernatural list of the sleazy Brit-
ish imprint Badger Books — in his
spare time. His output under many
pseudonyms ran to weU over two
hundred novels and collections.

At this pace, padding became a
way of life. Ahen races in Forbidden
Planet (1961) can teleport in differ-
ent ways about a sixty-four-planet
battleground... cueing a volumi-
nous, barely disguised exposition
of chess. Galaxy 666 (1963) de-
votes pages to nuances of land-
scape color:

It gave an overall impression of
greyness streaked with pink and
white, rather than an over-all
impression of whiteness tinged
with grey and pink, or an overall
impression of pink streaked with
grey and white.

A favorite for reading aloud is
March of the Robots, especially
when the eponymous invaders land:

Terrifying things, steel things;

metal things; things with cylin-
drical bodies and multitudinous
jointed limbs. Things without
flesh and blood. Things that
were made of metal and plastic
and transistors and valves and
relays, and wires. Metal things.
Metal things that could think.
Thinking metal things. Terrify-
ing in their strangeness, in their
peculiar metal efficiency.
Things the hke of which had
never been seen on the earth
before. Things that were sliding
back panels... Robots! Robots
were marching...

Listeners find themselves
chanting along to the inexorable
rhythms:

The city slept. Men slept. Women
slept. Children slept. Dogs and
cats slept.

In 2002 the author, now the
Reverend Lionel Fanthorpe, cel-
ebrated fifty years in print. The best
or worst of his Badger excesses are
collected in Down the Badger Hole
(1995) ed. Debbie Cross. T

— David Langford

A CLASSIC FOR ALL TIME - NOW BACK IN PRINT IN THE U.S.

BOOK OF THE THREE
DRAGONS

by Kenneth Morris

Now Available

"A singularly fine example of the
recreation of a work magnificent in its
own right (the Mabinogion)...a literary
event rather rare except in fantasy."

- Ursula K. Le Gain

And two classics in the making...

"...one of the
most clever and
insightful
explorations of
its kind."

- David Brin,
author of
Foundation's
Triumph

THE SCIENCE OF MIDDLE-EARTH

by Henry Gee
October 2004

THE SILLYMARILLION

by D.R. Lloyd
Now Available

An Unauthorized Parody
of J.R.R. Tolkien's

The Silmarillion

CXold jQ^pring :^ress

Distributed by Simon & Schuster - Available Wherever Books Are Sold

A PATH FORMED BY

III Ihr w.ikc 111 iIh’ W.ir ol Snuls, thi- nnstcnous
\s'i Ill'll iiw'i nil. Ill Mina Miii"'''-''' ti'i ln'i' Dark ijurcii.
Dfsp.iir iiirns in (l^■ll'^mill.Ili(>n as Mina ^athfis v,!
a ni'W arnn nl Inllnw'crs in raii\' nut Ihn wisiK
nl hfi new p.ilrnn- Chemnsh, (Inii nl Death, s
• Vs ni.ilevnlenl Intees ennspire and ennllirt arises, *
a l)ra\e mnnk cii M.ijere aliiindnns Iris laitii <ind
sets niit li ) sio| ) .Min.i iind lier disc i| ties.

. MuIm'i (IIkI . Vsiics is II le lirsl linnk in an exeitii ijr new
series liy ;\('ie Mirk limes I lest-sellinj.; <intlu)r
Margaret Weis ilie Nlislress nl l-.intasN.

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WIZARDS OF THE COAST and DRAGONLANCE and thair raspactive logos are iradamatks of Wizards Of Ihe Coast, Inc. in the U S.A and other countries
rP 2004 Wizards

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